Title: Skull-Face
Author: Robert E. Howard
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Language: English
Date first posted: Nov 2006
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"We are no other than a moving row
Of Magic Shadow-shapes that come and go."
—Omar Khayyam

THE horror first took concrete form amid that most
unconcrete of all things—a hashish dream. I was off on a timeless,
spaceless journey through the strange lands that belong to this state of
being, a million miles away from earth and all things earthly; yet I became
cognizant that something was reaching across the unknown
voids—something that tore ruthlessly at the separating curtains of my
illusions and intruded itself into my visions.

I did not exactly return to ordinary waking life, yet I was conscious of a
seeing and a recognizing that was unpleasant and seemed out of keeping with
the dream I was at that time enjoying. To one who has never known the
delights of hashish, my explanation must seem chaotic and impossible. Still,
I was aware of a rending of mists and then the Face intruded itself into my
sight. I though at first it was merely a skull; then I saw that it was a
hideous yellow instead of white, and was endowed with some horrid form of
life. Eyes glimmered deep in the sockets and the jaws moved as if in speech.
The body, except for the high, thin shoulders, was vague and indistinct, but
the hands, which floated in the mists before and below the skull, were
horribly vivid and filled me with crawling fears. They were like the hands of
a mummy, long, lean and yellow, with knobby joints and cruel curving
talons.

Then, to complete the vague horror which was swiftly taking possession of
me, a voice spoke—imagine a man so long dead that his vocal organ had
grown rusty and unaccustomed to speech. This was the thought which struck me
and made my flesh crawl as I listened.

"A strong brute and one who might be useful somehow. See that he is given
all the hashish he requires."

Then the face began to recede, even as I sensed that I was the subject of
conversation, and the mists billowed and began to close again. Yet for a
single instant a scene stood out with startling clarity. I gasped—or
sought to. For over the high, strange shoulder of the apparition another face
stood out clearly for an instant, as if the owner peered at me. Red lips,
half- parted, long dark eyelashes, shading vivid eyes, a shimmery cloud of
hair. Over the shoulder of Horror, breathtaking beauty for an instant looked
at me.

"Up from Earth's center through the Seventh
Gate
I rose, and on the Throne of Saturn sate."
— Omar Khayyam

MY DREAM of the skull-face was borne over that usually
uncrossable gap that lies between hashish enchantment and humdrum reality. I
sat cross-legged on a mat in Yun Shatu's Temple of Dreams and gathered the
fading forces of my decaying brain to the task of remembering events and
faces.

This last dream was so entirely different from any I had ever had before,
that my waning interest was roused to the point of inquiring as to its
origin. When I first began to experiment with hashish, I sought to find a
physical or psychic basis for the wild flights of illusion pertaining
thereto, but of late I had been content to enjoy without seeking cause and
effect.

Whence this unaccountable sensation of familiarity in regard to that
vision? I took my throbbing head between my hands and laboriously sought a
clue. A living dead man and a girl of rare beauty who had looked over his
shoulder. Then I remembered.

Back in the fog of days and nights which veils a hashish addict's memory,
my money had given out. It seemed years or possibly centuries, but my
stagnant reason told me that it had probably been only a few days. At any
rate, I had presented myself at Yun Shatu's sordid dive as usual and had been
thrown out by the great Negro Hassim when it was learned I had no more
money.

My universe crashing to pieces about me, and my nerves humming like taut
piano wires for the vital need that was mine, I crouched in the gutter and
gibbered bestially, till Hassim swaggered out and stilled my yammerings with
a blow that felled me, half-stunned.

Then as I presently rose, staggeringly and with no thought save of the
river which flowed with cool murmur so near me—as I rose, a light hand
was laid like the touch of a rose on my arm. I turned with a frightened
start, and stood spellbound before the vision of loveliness which met my
gaze. Dark eyes limpid with pity surveyed me and the little hand on my ragged
sleeve drew me toward the door of the Dream Temple. I shrank back, but a low
voice, soft and musical, urged me, and filled with a trust that was strange,
I shambled along with my beautiful guide.

At the door Hassim met us, cruel hands lifted and a dark scowl on his ape-
like brow, but as I cowered there, expecting a blow, he halted before the
girl's upraised hand and her word of command which had taken on an imperious
note.

I did not understand what she said, but I saw dimly, as in a fog, that she
gave the black man money, and she led me to a couch where she had me recline
and arranged the cushions as if I were king of Egypt instead of a ragged,
dirty renegade who lived only for hashish. Her slim hand was cool on my brow
for a moment, and then she was gone and Yussef Ali came bearing the stuff for
which my very soul shrieked—and soon I was wandering again through
those strange and exotic countries that only a hashish slave knows.

Now as I sat on the mat and pondered the dream of the skull-face I
wondered more. Since the unknown girl had led me back into the dive, I had
come and gone as before, when I had plenty of money to pay Yun Shatu. Someone
certainly was paying him for me, and while my subconscious mind had told me
it was the girl, my rusty brain had failed to grasp the fact entirely, or to
wonder why. What need of wondering? So someone paid and the vivid-hued dreams
continued, what cared I? But now I wondered. For the girl who had protected
me from Hassim and had brought the hashish for me was the same girl I had
seen in the skull-face dream.

Through the soddenness of my degradation the lure of her struck like a
knife piercing my heart and strangely revived the memories of the days when I
was a man like other men—not yet a sullen, cringing slave of dreams.
Far and dim they were, shimmery islands in the mist of years—and what a
dark sea lay between!

I looked at my ragged sleeve and the dirty, claw-like hand protruding from
it; I gazed through the hanging smoke which fogged the sordid room, at the
low bunks along the wall whereon lay the blankly staring dreamers—
slaves, like me, of hashish or of opium. I gazed at the slippered Chinamen
gliding softly to and fro bearing pipes or roasting balls of concentrated
purgatory over tiny flickering fires. I gazed at Hassim standing, arms
folded, beside the door like a great statue of black basalt.

And I shuddered and hid my face in my hands because with the faint dawning
of returning manhood, I knew that this last and most cruel dream was
futile—I had crossed an ocean over which I could never return, had cut
myself off from the world of normal men or women. Naught remained now but to
drown this dream as I had drowned all my others—swiftly and with hope
that I should soon attain that Ultimate Ocean which lies beyond all
dreams.

So these fleeting moments of lucidity, of longing, that tear aside the
veils of all dope slaves—unexplainable, without hope of attainment.

So I went back to my empty dreams, to my phantasmagoria of illusions; but
sometimes, like a sword cleaving a mist, through the high lands and the low
lands and seas of my visions floated, like half-forgotten music, the sheen of
dark eyes and shimmery hair.

You ask how I, Stephen Costigan, American and a man of some attainments
and culture, came to lie in a filthy dive of London's Limehouse? The answer
is simple—no jaded debauchee, I, seeking new sensations in the
mysteries of the Orient. I answer—Argonne! Heavens, what deeps and
heights of horror lurk in that one word alone!
Shell-shocked—shell-torn. Endless days and nights without end and
roaring red hell over No Man's Land where I lay shot and bayoneted to shreds
of gory flesh. My body recovered, how I know not; my mind never did.

And the leaping fires and shifting shadows in my tortured brain drove me
down and down, along the stairs of degradation, uncaring until at last I
found surcease in Yun Shatu's Temple of Dreams, where I slew my red dreams in
other dreams—the dreams of hashish whereby a man may descend to the
lower pits of the reddest hells or soar into those unnamable heights where
the stars are diamond pinpoints beneath his feet.

Not the visions of the sot, the beast, were mine. I attained the
unattainable, stood face to face with the unknown and in cosmic calmness knew
the unguessable. And was content after a fashion, until the sight of
burnished hair and scarlet lips swept away my dream-built universe and left
me shuddering among its ruins.

"And He that toss'd you down into the Field,
He knows about it all—He knows! He knows!"
— Omar Khayyam

A HAND shook me roughly as I emerged languidly from my
latest debauch.

"The Master wishes you! Up, swine!"

Hassim it was who shook me and who spoke.

"To Hell with the Master!" I answered, for I hated Hassim—and feared
him.

"Up with you or you get no more hashish," was the brutal response, and I
rose in trembling haste.

I followed the huge black man and he led the way to the rear of the
building, stepping in and out among the wretched dreamers on the floor.

"Muster all hands on deck!" droned a sailor in a bunk. "All hands!"

Hassim flung open the door at the rear and motioned me to enter. I had
never before passed through that door and had supposed it led into Yun
Shatu's private quarters. But it was furnished only with a cot, a bronze idol
of some sort before which incense burned, and a heavy table.

Hassim gave me a sinister glance and seized the table as if to spin it
about. It turned as if it stood on a revolving platform and a section of the
floor turned with it, revealing a hidden doorway in the floor. Steps led
downward in the darkness.

Hassim lighted a candle and with a brusque gesture invited me to descend.
I did so, with the sluggish obedience of the dope addict, and he followed,
closing the door above us by means of an iron lever fastened to the underside
of the floor. In the semi-darkness we went down the rickety steps, some nine
or ten I should say, and then came upon a narrow corridor.

Here Hassim again took the lead, holding the candle high in front of him.
I could scarcely see the sides of this cave-like passageway but knew that it
was not wide. The flickering light showed it to be bare of any sort of
furnishings save for a number of strange-looking chests which lined the walls
—receptacles containing opium and other dope, I thought.

A continuous scurrying and the occasional glint of small red eyes haunted
the shadows, betraying the presence of vast numbers of the great rats which
infest the Thames waterfront of that section.

Then more steps loomed out of the dark in front of us as the corridor came
to an abrupt end. Hassim led the way up and at the top knocked four times
against what seemed the underside of a floor. A hidden door opened and a
flood of soft, illusive light streamed through.

Hassim hustled me up roughly and I stood blinking in such a setting as I
had never seen in my wildest flights of vision. I stood in a jungle of palm
trees through which wriggled a million vivid-hued dragons! Then, as my
startled eyes became accustomed to the light, I saw that I had not been
suddenly transferred to some other planet, as I had at first thought. The
palm trees were there, and the dragons, but the trees were artificial and
stood in great pots and the dragons writhed across heavy tapestries which hid
the walls.

The room itself was a monstrous affair—inhumanly large, it seemed to
me. A thick smoke, yellowish and tropical in suggestion, seemed to hang over
all, veiling the ceiling and baffling upward glances. This smoke, I saw,
emanated from an altar in front of the wall to my left. I started. Through
the saffron-billowing fog two eyes, hideously large and vivid, glittered at
me. The vague outlines of some bestial idol took indistinct shape. I flung an
uneasy glance about, marking the oriental divans and couches and the bizarre
furnishings, and then my eyes halted and rested on a lacquer screen just in
front of me.

I could not pierce it and no sound came from beyond it, yet I felt eyes
searing into my consciousness through it, eyes that burned through my very
soul. A strange aura of evil flowed from that strange screen with its weird
carvings and unholy decorations.

Hassim salaamed profoundly before it and then, without speaking, stepped
back and folded his arms, statue-like.

A voice suddenly broke the heavy and oppressive silence.

"You who are a swine, would you like to be a man again?"

I started. The tone was inhuman, cold—more, there was a suggestion
of long disuse of the vocal organs—the voice I had heard in my
dream!

"Yes," I replied, trance-like, "I would like to be a man again."

Silence ensued for a space; then the voice came again with a sinister
whispering undertone at the back of its sound like bats flying through a
cavern.

"I shall make you a man again because I am a friend to all broken men. Not
for a price shall I do it, nor for gratitude. And I give you a sign to seal
my promise and my vow. Thrust your hand through the screen."

At these strange and almost unintelligible words I stood perplexed, and
then, as the unseen voice repeated the last command, I stepped forward and
thrust my hand through a slit which opened silently in the screen. I felt my
wrist seized in an iron grip and something seven times colder than ice
touched the inside of my hand. Then my wrist was released, and drawing forth
my hand I saw a strange symbol traced in blue close to the base of my
thumb—a thing like a scorpion.

The voice spoke again in a sibilant language I did not understand, and
Hassim stepped forward deferentially. He reached about the screen and then
turned to me, holding a goblet of some amber-colored liquid which he
proffered me with an ironical bow. I took it hesitatingly.

"Drink and fear not," said the unseen voice. "It is only an Egyptian wine
with life-giving qualities."

So I raised the goblet and emptied it; the taste was not unpleasant, and
even as I handed the beaker to Hassim again, I seemed to feel new life and
vigor whip along my jaded veins.

"Remain at Yun Shatu's house," said the voice. "You will be given food and
a bed until you are strong enough to work for yourself. You will use no
hashish nor will you require any. Go!"

As in a daze, I followed Hassim back through the hidden door, down the
steps, along the dark corridor and up through the other door that let us into
the Temple of Dreams.

As we stepped from the rear chamber into the main room of the dreamers, I
turned to the Negro wonderingly.

"There was the Door to which I found no Key;
There was the Veil through which I might not see."
— Omar Khayyam

I SAT on Yun Shatu's cushions and pondered with a clearness
of mind new and strange to me. As for that, all my sensations were new and
strange. I felt as if I had wakened from a monstrously long sleep, and though
my thoughts were sluggish, I felt as though the cobwebs which had dogged them
for so long had been partly brushed away.

I drew my hand across my brow, noting how it trembled. I was weak and
shaky and felt the stirrings of hunger—not for dope but for food. What
had been in the draft I had quenched in the chamber of mystery? And why had
the "Master" chosen me, out of all the other wretches of Yun Shatu's, for
regeneration?

And who was this Master? Somehow the word sounded vaguely familiar
—I sought laboriously to remember. Yes—I had heard it, lying
half-waking in the bunks or on the floor—whispered sibilantly by Yun
Shatu or by Hassim or by Yussef Ali, the Moor, muttered in their low-voiced
conversations and mingled always with words I could not understand. Was not
Yun Shatu, then, master of the Temple of Dreams? I had thought and the other
addicts thought that the withered Chinaman held undisputed sway over this
drab kingdom and that Hassim and Yussef Ali were his servants. And the four
China boys who roasted opium with Yun Shatu and Yar Khan the Afghan and
Santiago the Haitian and Ganra Singh, the renegade Sikh—all in the pay
of Yun Shatu, we supposed—bound to the opium lord by bonds of gold or
fear.

For Yun Shatu was a power in London's Chinatown and I had heard that his
tentacles reached across the seas into high places of mighty and mysterious
tongs. Was that Yun Shatu behind the lacquer screen? No; I knew the
Chinaman's voice and besides I had seen him puttering about in the front of
the Temple just as I went through the back door.

Another thought came to me. Often, lying half-torpid, in the late hours of
night or in the early grayness of dawn, I had seen men and women steal into
the Temple, whose dress and bearing were strangely out of place and
incongruous. Tall, erect men, often in evening dress, with their hats drawn
low about their brows, and fine ladies, veiled, in silks and furs. Never two
of them came together, but always they came separately and, hiding their
features, hurried to the rear door, where they entered and presently came
forth again, hours later sometimes. Knowing that the lust for dope finds
resting-place in high positions sometimes, I had never wondered overmuch,
supposing that these were wealthy men and women of society who had fallen
victims to the craving, and that somewhere in the back of the building there
was a private chamber for such. Yet now I wondered—sometimes these
persons had remained only a few moments—was it always opium for which
they came, or did they, too, traverse that strange corridor and converse with
the One behind the screen?

My mind dallied with the idea of a great specialist to whom came all
classes of people to find surcease from the dope habit. Yet it was strange
that such a one should select a dope-joint from which to work—strange,
too, that the owner of that house should apparently look on him with so much
reverence.

I gave it up as my head began to hurt with the unwonted effort of
thinking, and shouted for food. Yussef Ali brought it to me on a tray, with a
promptness which was surprizing. More, he salaamed as he departed, leaving me
to ruminate on the strange shift of my status in the Temple of Dreams.

I ate, wondering what the One of the screen wanted with me. Not for an
instant did I suppose that his actions had been prompted by the reasons he
pretended; the life of the underworld had taught me that none of its denizens
leaned toward philanthropy. And underworld the chamber of mystery had been,
in spite of its elaborate and bizarre nature. And where could it be located?
How far had I walked along the corridor? I shrugged my shoulders, wondering
if it were not all a hashish-induced dream; then my eye fell upon my
hand—and the scorpion traced thereon.

"Muster all hands!" droned the sailor in the bunk. "All hands!"

To tell in detail of the next few days would be boresome to any who have
not tasted the dire slavery of dope. I waited for the craving to strike me
again—waited with sure sardonic hopelessness. All day, all night
—another day—then the miracle was forced upon my doubting brain.
Contrary to all theories and supposed facts of science and common sense the
craving had left me as suddenly and completely as a bad dream! At first I
could not credit my senses but believed myself to be still in the grip of a
dope nightmare. But it was true. From the time I quaffed the goblet in the
room of mystery, I felt not the slightest desire for the stuff which had been
life itself to me. This, I felt vaguely, was somehow unholy and certainly
opposed to all rules of nature. If the dread being behind the screen had
discovered the secret of breaking hashish's terrible power, what other
monstrous secrets had he discovered and what unthinkable dominance was his?
The suggestion of evil crawled serpent-like through my mind.

I remained at Yun Shatu's house, lounging in a bunk or on cushions spread
upon the floor, eating and drinking at will, but now that I was becoming a
normal man again, the atmosphere became most revolting to me and the sight of
the wretches writhing in their dreams reminded me unpleasantly of what I
myself had been, and it repelled, nauseated me.

So one day, when no one was watching me, I rose and went out on the street
and walked along the waterfront. The air, burdened though it was with smoke
and foul scents, filled my lungs with strange freshness and aroused new vigor
in what had once been a powerful frame. I took new interest in the sounds of
men living and working, and the sight of a vessel being unloaded at one of
the wharfs actually thrilled me. The force of longshoremen was short, and
presently I found myself heaving and lifting and carrying, and though the
sweat coursed down my brow and my limbs trembled at the effort, I exulted in
the thought that at last I was able to labor for myself again, no matter how
low or drab the work might be.

As I returned to the door of Yun Shatu's that evening—hideously
weary but with the renewed feeling of manhood that comes of honest toil
— Hassim met me at the door.

"You been where?" he demanded roughly.

"I've been working on the docks," I answered shortly.

"You don't need to work on docks," he snarled. "The Master got work for
you."

He led the way, and again I traversed the dark stairs and the corridor
under the earth. This time my faculties were alert and I decided that the
passageway could not be over thirty or forty feet in length. Again I stood
before the lacquer screen and again I heard the inhuman voice of living
death.

"I can give you work," said the voice. "Are you willing to work for
me?"

I quickly assented. After all, in spite of the fear which the voice
inspired, I was deeply indebted to the owner.

"Good. Take these."

As I started toward the screen a sharp command halted me and Hassim
stepped forward and reaching behind took what was offered. This was a bundle
of pictures and papers, apparently.

"Study these," said the One behind the screen, "and learn all you can
about the man portrayed thereby. Yun Shatu will give you money; buy yourself
such clothes as seamen wear and take a room at the front of the Temple. At
the end of two days, Hassim will bring you to me again. Go!"

The last impression I had, as the hidden door closed above me, was that
the eyes of the idol, blinking through the everlasting smoke, leered
mockingly at me.

The front of the Temple of Dreams consisted of rooms for rent, masking the
true purpose of the building under the guise of a waterfront boarding house.
The police had made several visits to Yun Shatu but had never got any
incriminating evidence against him.

So in one of these rooms I took up my abode and set to work studying the
material given me.

The pictures were all of one man, a large man, not unlike me in build and
general facial outline, except that he wore a heavy beard and was inclined to
blondness whereas I am dark. The name, as written on the accompanying papers,
was Major Fairlan Morley, special commissioner to Natal and the Transvaal.
This office and title were new to me and I wondered at the connection between
an African commissioner and an opium house on the Thames waterfront.

The papers consisted of extensive data evidently copied from authentic
sources and all dealing with Major Morley, and a number of private documents
considerably illuminating on the major's private life.

An exhaustive description was given of the man's personal appearance and
habits, some of which seemed very trivial to me. I wondered what the purpose
could be, and how the One behind the screen had come in possession of papers
of such intimate nature.

I could find no clue in answer to this question but bent all my energies
to the task set out for me. I owed a deep debt of gratitude to the unknown
man who required this of me and I was determined to repay him to the best of
my ability. Nothing, at this time, suggested a snare to me.

"What dam of lances sent thee forth to jest at
dawn with Death?"
— Kipling

AT THE expiration of two days, Hassim beckoned me as I stood
in the opium room. I advanced with a springy, resilient tread, secure in the
confidence that I had culled the Morley papers of all their worth. I was a
new man; my mental swiftness and physical readiness surprized
me—sometimes it seemed unnatural.

Hassim eyed me through narrowed lids and motioned me to follow, as usual.
As we crossed the room, my gaze fell upon a man who lay on a couch close to
the wall, smoking opium. There was nothing at all suspicious about his
ragged, unkempt clothes, his dirty, bearded face or the blank stare, but my
eyes, sharpened to an abnormal point, seemed to sense a certain incongruity
in the clean-cut limbs which not even the slouchy garments could efface.

Hassim spoke impatiently and I turned away. We entered the rear room, and
as he shut the door and turned to the table, it moved of itself and a figure
bulked up through the hidden doorway. The Sikh, Ganra Singh, a lean sinister-
eyed giant, emerged and proceeded to the door opening into the opium room,
where he halted until we should have descended and closed the secret
doorway.

Again I stood amid the billowing yellow smoke and listened to the hidden
voice.

"Do you think you know enough about Major Morley to impersonate him
successfully?"

Startled, I answered, "No doubt I could, unless I met someone who was
intimate with him."

"I will take care of that. Follow me closely. Tomorrow you sail on the
first boat for Calais. There you will meet an agent of mine who will accost
you the instant you step upon the wharfs, and give you further instructions.
You will sail second class and avoid all conversation with strangers or
anyone. Take the papers with you. The agent will aid you in making up and
your masquerade will start in Calais. That is all. Go!"

I departed, my wonder growing. All this rigmarole evidently had a meaning,
but one which I could not fathom. Back in the opium room Hassim bade me be
seated on some cushions to await his return. To my question he snarled that
he was going forth as he had been ordered, to buy me a ticket on the Channel
boat. He departed and I sat down, leaning my back against the wall. As I
ruminated, it seemed suddenly that eyes were fixed on me so intensely as to
disturb my sub-mind. I glanced up quickly but no one seemed to be looking at
me. The smoke drifted through the hot atmosphere as usual; Yussef Ali and the
Chinese glided back and forth tending to the wants of the sleepers.

Suddenly the door to the rear room opened and a strange and hideous figure
came haltingly out. Not all of those who found entrance to Yun Shatu's back
room were aristocrats and society members. This was one of the exceptions,
and one whom I remembered as having often entered and emerged therefrom. A
tall, gaunt figure, shapeless and ragged wrappings and nondescript garments,
face entirely hidden. Better that the face be hidden, I thought, for without
doubt the wrapping concealed a grisly sight. The man was a leper, who had
somehow managed to escape the attention of the public guardians and who was
occasionally seen haunting the lower and more mysterious regions of East End
—a mystery even to the lowest denizens of Limehouse.

Suddenly my supersensitive mind was aware of a swift tension in the air.
The leper hobbled out the door, closed it behind him. My eyes instinctively
sought the couch whereon lay the man who had aroused my suspicions earlier in
the day. I could have sworn that cold steely eyes glared menacingly before
they flickered shut. I crossed to the couch in one stride and bent over the
prostrate man. Something about his face seemed unnatural—a healthy
bronze seemed to underlie the pallor of complexion.

"Yun Shatu!" I shouted. "A spy is in the house!"

Things happened then with bewildering speed. The man on the couch with one
tigerish movement leaped erect and a revolver gleamed in his hand. One sinewy
arm flung me aside as I sought to grapple with him and a sharp decisive voice
sounded over the babble which broke forth.

"You there! Halt! Halt!"

The pistol in the stranger's hand was leveled at the leper, who was making
for the door in long strides!

All about was confusion; Yun Shatu was shrieking volubly in Chinese and
the four China boys and Yussef Ali were rushing in from all sides, knives
glittering in their hands.

All this I saw with unnatural clearness even as I marked the stranger's
face. As the fleeing leper gave no evidence of halting, I saw the eyes harden
to steely points of determination, sighting along the pistol barrel—the
features set with the grim purpose of the slayer. The leper was almost to the
outer door, but death would strike him down ere he could reach it.

And then, just as the finger of the stranger tightened on the trigger, I
hurled myself forward and my right fist crashed against his chin. He went
down as though struck by a trip-hammer, the revolver exploding harmlessly in
the air.

In that instant, with the blinding flare of light that sometimes comes to
one, I knew that the leper was none other than the Man Behind the Screen!

I bent over the fallen man, who though not entirely senseless had been
rendered temporarily helpless by that terrific blow. He was struggling
dazedly to rise but I shoved him roughly down again and seizing the false
beard he wore, tore it away. A lean bronzed face was revealed, the strong
lines of which not even the artificial dirt and grease-paint could alter.

"This is John Gordon," he hissed, "the Master's greatest foe! He must die,
curse you!"

John Gordon! The name was familiar somehow, and yet I did not seem to
connect it with the London police nor account for the man's presence in Yun
Shatu's dope-joint. However, on one point I was determined.

"You don't kill him, at any rate. Up with you!" This last to Gordon, who
with my aid staggered up, still very dizzy.

"That punch would have dropped a bull," I said in wonderment; "I didn't
know I had it in me."

The false leper had vanished. Yun Shatu stood gazing at me as immobile as
an idol, hands in his wide sleeves, and Yussef Ali stood back, muttering
murderously and thumbing his dagger edge, as I led Gordon out of the opium
room and through the innocent-appearing bar which lay between that room and
the street.

Out in the street I said to him: "I have no idea as to who you are or what
you are doing here, but you see what an unhealthful place it is for you.
Hereafter be advised by me and stay away."

His only answer was a searching glance, and then be turned and walked
swiftly though somewhat unsteadily up the street.

She entered, and half-turning with a sinuous motion, closed the door. I
sprang forward, my hands outstretched, then halted as she put a finger to her
lips.

"You must not talk loudly," she almost whispered. "He did not say I could
not come; yet—"

Her voice was soft and musical, with just a touch of foreign accent which
I found delightful. As for the girl herself, every intonation, every movement
proclaimed the Orient. She was a fragrant breath from the East. From her
night- black hair, piled high above her alabaster forehead, to her little
feet, encased in high-heeled pointed slippers, she portrayed the highest
ideal of Asiatic loveliness—an effect which was heightened rather than
lessened by the English blouse and skirt which she wore.

"You are beautiful!" I said dazedly. "Who are you?"

"I am Zuleika," she answered with a shy smile. "I—I am glad you like
me. I am glad you no longer dream hashish dreams."

Strange that so small a thing should set my heart to leaping wildly!

"I owe it all to you, Zuleika," I said huskily. "Had not I dreamed of you
every hour since you first lifted me from the gutter, I had lacked the power
of even hoping to be freed from my curse."

She blushed prettily and intertwined her white fingers as if in
nervousness.

"You leave England tomorrow?" she said suddenly.

"Yes. Hassim has not returned with my ticket—" I hesitated suddenly,
remembering the command of silence.

"Yes, I know, I know!" she whispered swiftly, her eyes widening. "And John
Gordon has been here! He saw you!"

"Yes!"

She came close to me with a quick lithe movement.

"You are to impersonate some man! Listen, while you are doing this, you
must not ever let Gordon see you! He would know you, no matter what your
disguise! He is a terrible man!"

"I don't understand," I said, completely bewildered. "How did the Master
break me of my hashish craving? Who is this Gordon and why did he come here?
Why does the Master go disguised as a leper—and who is he? Above all,
why am I to impersonate a man I never saw or heard of?"

"I cannot—I dare not tell you!" she whispered, her face paling.
"I—"

Somewhere in the house sounded the faint tones of a Chinese gong. The girl
started like a frightened gazelle.

"I must go! He summons me!"

She opened the door, darted through, halted a moment to electrify me with
her passionate exclamation: "Oh, be careful, be very careful, sahib!"

"What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?"
—Blake

A WHILE after my beautiful and mysterious visitor had left,
I sat in meditation. I believed that I had at last stumbled onto an
explanation of a part of the enigma, at any rate. This was the conclusion I
had reached: Yun Shatu, the opium lord, was simply the agent or servant of
some organization or individual whose work was on a far larger scale than
merely supplying dope addicts in the Temple of Dreams. This man or these men
needed co-workers among all classes of people; in other words, I was being
let in with a group of opium smugglers on a gigantic scale. Gordon no doubt
had been investigating the case, and his presence alone showed that it was no
ordinary one, for I knew that he held a high position with the English
government, though just what, I did not know.

Opium or not, I determined to carry out my obligation to the Master. My
moral sense had been blunted by the dark ways I had traveled, and the thought
of despicable crime did not enter my head. I was indeed hardened. More, the
mere debt of gratitude was increased a thousand-fold by the thought of the
girl. To the Master I owed it that I was able to stand up on my feet and look
into her clear eyes as a man should. So if he wished my services as a
smuggler of dope, he should have them. No doubt I was to impersonate some man
so high in governmental esteem that the usual actions of the customs officers
would be deemed unnecessary; was I to bring some rare dream-producer into
England?

These thoughts were in my mind as I went downstairs, but ever back of them
hovered other and more alluring suppositions—what was the reason for
the girl, here in this vile dive—a rose in a garbage-heap— and
who was she?

As I entered the outer bar, Hassim came in, his brows set in a dark scowl
of anger, and, I believed, fear. He carried a newspaper in his hand,
folded.

"I told you to wait in opium room," he snarled.

"You were gone so long that I went up to my room. Have you the
ticket?"

He merely grunted and pushed on past me into the opium room, and standing
at the door I saw him cross the floor and disappear into the rear room. I
stood there, my bewilderment increasing. For as Hassim had brushed past me, I
had noted an item on the face of the paper, against which his black thumb was
tightly pressed as if to mark that special column of news.

And with the unnatural celerity of action and judgment which seemed to be
mine those days, I had in that fleeting instant read:

AFRICAN SPECIAL COMMISSIONER FOUND MURDERED!

The body of Major Fairlan Morley was yesterday
discovered in a rotting ship's hold at Bordeaux...

No more I saw of the details, but that alone was enough to make me think!
The affair seemed to be taking on an ugly aspect. Yet—

Another day passed. To my inquiries, Hassim snarled that the plans had
been changed and I was not to go to France. Then, late in the evening, he
came to bid me once more to the room of mystery.

I stood before the lacquer screen, the yellow smoke acrid in my nostrils,
the woven dragons writhing along the tapestries, the palm trees rearing thick
and oppressive.

"A change has come in our plans," said the hidden voice. "You will not
sail as was decided before. But I have other work that you may do. Mayhap
this will be more to your type of usefulness, for I admit you have somewhat
disappointed me in regard to subtlety. You interfered the other day in such
manner as will no doubt cause me great inconvenience in the future."

I said nothing, but a feeling of resentment began to stir in me.

"Even after the assurance of one of my most trusted servants," the
toneless voice continued, with no mark of any emotion save a slightly rising
note, "you insisted on releasing my most deadly enemy. Be more circumspect in
the future."

"I saved your life!" I said angrily.

"And for that reason alone I overlook your mistake—this time!"

A slow fury suddenly surged up in me.

"This time! Make the best of it this time, for I assure you there will be
no next time. I owe you a greater debt than I can ever hope to pay, but that
does not make me your slave. I have saved your life—the debt is as near
paid as a man can pay it. Go your way and I go mine!"

A low, hideous laugh answered me, like a reptilian hiss.

"You fool! You will pay with your whole life's toil! You say you are not
my slave? I say you are—just as black Hassim there beside you is my
slave—just as the girl Zuleika is my slave, who has bewitched you with
her beauty."

These words sent a wave of hot blood to my brain and I was conscious of a
flood of fury which completely engulfed my reason for a second. Just as all
my moods and senses seemed sharpened and exaggerated those days, so now this
burst of rage transcended every moment of anger I had ever had before.

"Hell's fiends!" I shrieked. "You devil—who are you and what is your
hold on me? I'll see you or die!"

Hassim sprang at me, but I hurled him backward and with one stride reached
the screen and flung it aside with an incredible effort of strength. Then I
shrank back, hands outflung, shrieking. A tall, gaunt figure stood before me,
a figure arrayed grotesquely in a silk brocaded gown which fell to the
floor.

From the sleeves of this gown protruded hands which filled me with
crawling horror—long, predatory hands, with thin bony fingers and
curved talons—withered skin of a parchment brownish-yellow, like the
hands of a man long dead.

The hands—but, oh God, the face! A skull to which no vestige of
flesh seemed to remain but on which taut brownish-yellow skin grew fast,
etching out every detail of that terrible death's-head. The forehead was high
and in a way magnificent, but the head was curiously narrow through the
temples, and from under penthouse brows great eyes glimmered like pools of
yellow fire. The nose was high-bridged and very thin; the mouth was a mere
colorless gash between thin, cruel lips. A long, bony neck supported this
frightful vision and completed the effect of a reptilian demon from some
medieval hell.

"By thought a crawling ruin,
By life a leaping mire.
By a broken heart in the breast of the world
And the end of the world's desire."
— Chesterton

THE terrible spectacle drove for the instant all thought of
rebellion from my mind. My very blood froze in my veins and I stood
motionless. I heard Hassim laugh grimly behind me. The eyes in the cadaverous
face blazed fiendishly at me and I blanched from the concentrated satanic
fury in them.

Then the horror laughed sibilantly.

"I do you a great honor, Mr. Costigan; among a very few, even of my own
servants, you may say that you saw my face and lived. I think you will be
more useful to me living than dead."

I was silent, completely unnerved. It was difficult to believe that this
man lived, for his appearance certainly belied the thought. He seemed
horribly like a mummy. Yet his lips moved when he spoke and his eyes flamed
with hideous life.

"You will do as I say," he said abruptly, and his voice had taken on a
note of command. "You doubtless know, or know of, Sir Haldred Frenton?"

"Yes."

Every man of culture in Europe and America was familiar with the travel
books of Sir Haldred Frenton, author and soldier of fortune.

"You will go to Sir Haldred's estate tonight—"

"Yes?"

"And kill him!"

I staggered, literally. This order was incredible—unspeakable! I had
sunk low, low enough to smuggle opium, but to deliberately murder a man I had
never seen, a man noted for his kindly deeds! That was too monstrous even to
contemplate.

Something in the cold assurance of his manner halted me—froze me
into apprehensive silence.

"You fool!" he said calmly. "I broke the hashish chains—do you know
how? Four minutes from now you will know and curse the day you were born!
Have you not thought it strange, the swiftness of brain, the resilience of
body —the brain that should be rusty and slow, the body that should be
weak and sluggish from years of abuse? That blow that felled John Gordon
— have you not wondered at its might? The ease with which you mastered
Major Morley's records—have you not wondered at that? You fool, you are
bound to me by chains of steel and blood and fire! I have kept you alive and
sane —I alone. Each day the life-saving elixir has been given you in
your wine. You could not live and keep your reason without it. And I and only
I know its secret!"

He glanced at a queer timepiece which stood on a table at his elbow.

"This time I had Yun Shatu leave the elixir out—I anticipated
rebellion. The time is near—ha, it strikes!"

Something else he said, but I did not hear. I did not see, nor did I feel
in the human sense of the word. I was writhing at his feet, screaming and
gibbering in the flames of such hells as men have never dreamed of.

Aye, I knew now! He had simply given me a dope so much stronger that it
drowned the hashish. My unnatural ability was explainable now—I had
simply been acting under the stimulus of something which combined all the
hells in its makeup, which stimulated, something like heroin, but whose
effect was unnoticed by the victim. What it was, I had no idea, nor did I
believe anyone knew save that hellish being who stood watching me with grim
amusement. But it had held my brain together, instilling into my system a
need for it, and now my frightful craving tore my soul asunder.

Never, in my moments of worst shell-shock or my moments of hashish-
craving, have I ever experienced anything like that. I burned with the heat
of a thousand hells and froze with an iciness that was colder than any ice, a
hundred times. I swept down to the deepest pits of torture and up to the
highest crags of torment—a million yelling devils hemmed me in,
shrieking and stabbing. Bone by bone, vein by vein, cell by cell I felt my
body disintegrate and fly in bloody atoms all over the universe—and
each separate cell was an entire system of quivering, screaming nerves. And
they gathered from far voids and reunited with a greater torment.

Through the fiery bloody mists I heard my own voice screaming, a
monotonous yammering. Then with distended eyes I saw a golden goblet, held by
a claw-like hand, swim into view—a goblet filled with an amber
liquid.

With a bestial screech, I seized it with both hands, being dimly aware
that the metal stem gave beneath my fingers, and brought the brim to my lips.
I drank in frenzied haste, the liquid slopping down onto my breast.

"Night shall be thrice night over you,
And Heaven an iron cope."
—Chesterton

THE Skull-faced One stood watching me critically as I sat
panting on a couch, completely exhausted. He held in his hand the goblet and
surveyed the golden stem, which was crushed out of all shape. This my maniac
fingers had done in the instant of drinking.

"Superhuman strength, even for a man in your condition," he said with a
sort of creaky pedantry. "I doubt if even Hassim here could equal it. Are you
ready for your instructions now?"

I nodded, wordless. Already the hellish strength of the elixir was flowing
through my veins, renewing my burnt-out force. I wondered how long a man
could live as I lived being constantly burned out and artificially
rebuilt.

"You will be given a disguise and will go alone to the Frenton estate. No
one suspects any design against Sir Haldred and your entrance into the estate
and the house itself should be a matter of comparative ease. You will not don
the disguise—which will be of unique nature—until you are ready
to enter the estate. You will then proceed to Sir Haldred's room and kill
him, breaking his neck with your bare hands—this is
essential—"

"You will then leave the estate, taking care to leave the imprint of your
hand somewhere plainly visible, and the automobile, which will be waiting for
you at some safe place nearby, will bring you back here, you having first
removed the disguise. I have, in case of complications, any amount of men who
will swear that you spent the entire night in the Temple of Dreams and never
left it. But here must be no detection! Go warily and perform your task
surely, for you know the alternative."

I did not return to the opium house but was taken through winding
corridors, hung with heavy tapestries, to a small room containing only an
oriental couch. Hassim gave me to understand that I was to remain here until
after nightfall and then left me. The door was closed but I made no effort to
discover if it was locked. The Skull-faced Master held me with stronger
shackles than locks and bolts.

Seated upon the couch in the bizarre setting of a chamber which might have
been a room in an Indian zenana, I faced fact squarely and fought out my
battle. There was still in me some trace of manhood left—more than the
fiend had reckoned, and added to this were black despair and desperation. I
chose and determined on my only course.

Suddenly the door opened softly. Some intuition told me whom to expect,
nor was I disappointed. Zuleika stood, a glorious vision before me—a
vision which mocked me, made blacker my despair and yet thrilled me with wild
yearning and reasonless joy.

She bore a tray of food which she set beside me, and then she seated
herself on the couch, her large eyes fixed upon my face. A flower in a
serpent den she was, and the beauty of her took hold of my heart.

"Steephen!" she whispered, and I thrilled as she spoke my name for the
first time.

Her luminous eyes suddenly shone with tears and she laid her little hand
on my arm. I seized it in both my rough hands.

"They have set you a task which you fear and hate!" she faltered.

"Aye," I almost laughed, "but I'll fool them yet! Zuleika, tell me
—what is the meaning of all this?"

She glanced fearfully around her.

"I do not know all"—she hesitated—"your plight is all my fault
but I—I hoped—Steephen, I have watched you every time you came to
Yun Shatu's for months. You did not see me but I saw you, and I saw in you,
not the broken sot your rags proclaimed, but a wounded soul, a soul bruised
terribly on the ramparts of life. And from my heart I pitied you. Then when
Hassim abused you that day"—again tears started to her eyes —"I
could not bear it and I knew how you suffered for want of hashish. So I paid
Yun Shatu, and going to the Master I—I—oh, you will hate me for
this!" she sobbed.

"No—no—never—"

"I told him that you were a man who might be of use to him and begged him
to have Yun Shatu supply you with what you needed. He had already noticed
you, for his is the eye of the slaver and all the world is his slave market!
So he bade Yun Shatu do as I asked; and now—better if you had remained
as you were, my friend."

"No! No!" I exclaimed. "I have known a few days of regeneration, even if
it was false! I have stood before you as a man, and that is worth all
else!"

And all that I felt for her must have looked forth from my eyes, for she
dropped hers and flushed. Ask me not how love comes to a man; but I knew that
I loved Zuleika—had loved this mysterious oriental girl since first I
saw her—and somehow I felt that she, in a measure, returned my
affection. This realization made blacker and more barren the road I had
chosen; yet —for pure love must ever strengthen a man—it nerved
me to what I must do.

"Zuleika," I said, speaking hurriedly, "time flies and there are things I
must learn; tell me—who are you and why do you remain in this den of
Hades?"

"I am Zuleika—that is all I know. I am Circassian by blood and
birth; when I was very little I was captured in a Turkish raid and raised in
a Stamboul harem; while I was yet too young to marry, my master gave me as a
present to—to Him."

"And who is he—this skull-faced man?"

"He is Kathulos of Egypt—that is all I know. My master."

"An Egyptian? Then what is he doing in London—why all this
mystery?"

She intertwined her fingers nervously.

"Steephen, please speak lower; always there is someone listening
everywhere. I do not know who the Master is or why he is here or why he does
these things. I swear by Allah! If I knew I would tell you. Sometimes
distinguished-looking men come here to the room where the Master receives
them —not the room where you saw him—and he makes me dance before
them and afterward flirt with them a little. And always I must repeat exactly
what they say to me. That is what I must always do—in Turkey, in the
Barbary States, in Egypt, in France and in England. The Master taught me
French and English and educated me in many ways himself. He is the greatest
sorcerer in all the world and knows all ancient magic and everything."

"Zuleika," I said, "my race is soon run, but let me get you out of this
—come with me and I swear I'll get you away from this fiend!"

She shuddered and hid her face.

"No, no, I cannot!"

"Zuleika," I asked gently, "what hold has he over you, child—dope
also?"

"No, no!" she whimpered. "I do not know—I do not know—but I
cannot—I never can escape him!"

I sat, baffled for a few moments; then I asked, "Zuleika, where are we
right now?"

"This building is a deserted storehouse back of the Temple of
Silence."

"I thought so. What is in the chests in the tunnel?"

"I do not know."

Then suddenly she began weeping softly. "You too, a slave, like me
—you who are so strong and kind—oh Steephen, I cannot bear
it!"

I smiled. "Lean closer, Zuleika, and I will tell you how I am going to
fool this Kathulos."

She glanced apprehensively at the door.

"You must speak low. I will lie in your arms and while you pretend to
caress me, whisper your words to me."

She glided into my embrace, and there on the dragon-worked couch in that
house of horror I first knew the glory of Zuleika's slender form nestling in
my arms—of Zuleika's soft cheek pressing my breast. The fragrance of
her was in my nostrils, her hair in my eyes, and my senses reeled; then with
my lips hidden by her silky hair I whispered, swiftly:

"I am going first to warn Sir Haldred Frenton—then to find John
Gordon and tell him of this den. I will lead the police here and you must
watch closely and be ready to hide from Him—until we can break
through and kill or capture him. Then you will be free."

"But you!" she gasped, paling. "You must have the elixir, and only
he—"

"I have a way of outdoing him, child," I answered.

She went pitifully white and her woman's intuition sprang at the right
conclusion.

"You are going to kill yourself!"

And much as it hurt me to see her emotion, I yet felt a torturing thrill
that she should feel so on my account. Her arms tightened about my neck.

"Don't, Steephen!" she begged. "It is better to live, even—"

"No, not at that price. Better to go out clean while I have the manhood
left."

She stared at me wildly for an instant; then, pressing her red lips
suddenly to mine, she sprang up and fled from the room. Strange, strange are
the ways of love. Two stranded ships on the shores of life, we had drifted
inevitably together, and though no word of love had passed between us, we
knew each other's heart—through grime and rags, and through
accouterments of the slave, we knew each other's heart and from the first
loved as naturally and as purely as it was intended from the beginning of
Time.

The beginning of life now and the end for me, for as soon as I had
completed my task, ere I felt again the torments of my curse, love and life
and beauty and torture should be blotted out together in the stark finality
of a pistol ball scattering my rotting brain. Better a clean death than
—

The door opened again and Yussef Ali entered.

"The hour arrives for departure," he said briefly. "Rise and follow."

I had no idea, of course, as to the time. No window opened from the room I
occupied—I had seen no outer window whatever. The rooms were lighted by
tapers in censers swinging from the ceiling. As I rose the slim young Moor
slanted a sinister glance in my direction.

"This lies between you and me," he said sibilantly. "Servants of the same
Master we—but this concerns ourselves alone. Keep your distance from
Zuleika—the Master has promised her to me in the days of the
empire."

My eyes narrowed to slits as I looked into the frowning, handsome face of
the Oriental, and such hate surged up in me as I have seldom known. My
fingers involuntarily opened and closed, and the Moor, marking the action,
stepped back, hand in his girdle.

"Not now—there is work for us both—later perhaps." Then in a
sudden cold gust of hatred, "Swine! Ape-man! When the Master is finished with
you I shall quench my dagger in your heart!"

I FOLLOWED Yussef Ali along the winding hallways, down the
steps— Kathulos was not in the idol room—and along the tunnel,
then through the rooms of the Temple of Dreams and out into the street, where
the street lamps gleamed drearily through the fogs and a slight drizzle.
Across the street stood an automobile, curtains closely drawn.

"That is yours," said Hassim, who had joined us. "Saunter across natural-
like. Don't act suspicious. The place may be watched. The driver knows what
to do."

Then he and Yussef Ali drifted back into the bar and I took a single step
toward the curb.

"Steephen!"

A voice that made my heart leap spoke my name! A white hand beckoned from
the shadows of a doorway. I stepped quickly there.

"Zuleika!"

"Shhh!"

She clutched my arm, slipped something into my hand; I made out vaguely a
small flask of gold.

"Hide this, quick!" came her urgent whisper. "Don't come back but go away
and hide. This is full of elixir—I will try to get you some more before
that is all gone. You must find a way of communicating with me."

"Yes, but how did you get this?" I asked amazedly.

"I stole it from the Master! Now please, I must go before he misses
me."

And she sprang back into the doorway and vanished. I stood undecided. I
was sure that she had risked nothing less than her life in doing this and I
was torn by the fear of what Kathulos might do to her, were the theft
discovered. But to return to the house of mystery would certainly invite
suspicion, and I might carry out my plan and strike back before the
Skull-faced One learned of his slave's duplicity.

So I crossed the street to the waiting automobile. The driver was a Negro
whom I had never seen before, a lanky man of medium height. I stared hard at
him, wondering how much he had seen. He gave no evidence of having seen
anything, and I decided that even if he had noticed me step back into the
shadows he could not have seen what passed there nor have been able to
recognize the girl.

He merely nodded as I climbed in the back seat, and a moment later we were
speeding away down the deserted and fog-haunted streets. A bundle beside me I
concluded to be the disguise mentioned by the Egyptian.

To recapture the sensations I experienced as I rode through the rainy,
misty night would be impossible. I felt as if I were already dead and the
bare and dreary streets about me were the roads of death over which my ghost
had been doomed to roam forever. A torturing joy was in my heart, and bleak
despair —the despair of a doomed man. Not that death itself was so
repellent —a dope victim dies too many deaths to shrink from the
last—but it was hard to go out just as love had entered my barren life.
And I was still young.

A sardonic smile crossed my lips—they were young, too, the men who
died beside me in No Man's Land. I drew back my sleeve and clenched my fists,
tensing my muscles. There was no surplus weight on my frame, and much of the
firm flesh had wasted away, but the cords of the great biceps still stood out
like knots of iron, seeming to indicate massive strength. But I knew my might
was false, that in reality I was a broken hulk of a man, animated only by the
artificial fire of the elixir, without which a frail girl might topple me
over.

The automobile came to a halt among some trees. We were on the outskirts
of an exclusive suburb and the hour was past midnight. Through the trees I
saw a large house looming darkly against the distant flares of nighttime
London.

"This is where I wait," said the Negro. "No one can see the automobile
from the road or from the house."

Holding a match so that its light could not be detected outside the car, I
examined the "disguise" and was hard put to restrain an insane laugh. The
disguise was the complete hide of a gorilla! Gathering the bundle under my
arm I trudged toward the wall which surrounded the Frenton estate. A few
steps and the trees where the Negro hid with the car merged into one dark
mass. I did not believe he could see me, but for safety's sake I made, not
for the high iron gate at the front, but for the wall at the side where there
was no gate.

No light showed in the house. Sir Haldred was a bachelor and I was sure
that the servants were all in bed long ago. I negotiated the wall with ease
and stole across the dark lawn to a side door, still carrying the grisly
"disguise" under my arm. The door was locked, as I had anticipated, and I did
not wish to arouse anyone until I was safely in the house, where the sound of
voices would not carry to one who might have followed me. I took hold of the
knob with both hands, and, exerting slowly the inhuman strength that was
mine, began to twist. The shaft turned in my hands and the lock within
shattered suddenly, with a noise that was like the crash of a cannon in the
stillness. An instant more and I was inside and had closed the door behind
me.

I took a single stride in the darkness in the direction I believed the
stair to be, then halted as a beam of light flashed into my face. At the side
of the beam I caught the glimmer of a pistol muzzle. Beyond a lean shadowy
face floated.

"Stand where you are and put up your hands!"

I lifted my hands, allowing the bundle to slip to the floor. I had heard
that voice only once but I recognized it—knew instantly that the man
who held that light was John Gordon.

"How many are with you?"

His voice was sharp, commanding.

"I am alone," I answered. "Take me into a room where a light cannot be
seen from the outside and I'll tell you some things you want to know."

He was silent; then, bidding me take up the bundle I had dropped, he
stepped to one side and motioned me to precede him into the next room. There
he directed me to a stairway and at the top landing opened a door and
switched on lights.

I found myself in a room whose curtains were closely drawn. During this
journey Gordon's alertness had not relaxed, and now he stood, still covering
me with his revolver. Clad in conventional garments, he stood revealed a
tall, leanly but powerfully built man, taller than I but not so
heavy—with steel-gray eyes and clean-cut features. Something about the
man attracted me, even as I noted a bruise on his jawbone where my fist had
struck in our last meeting.

"I cannot believe," he said crisply, "that this apparent clumsiness and
lack of subtlety is real. Doubtless you have your own reasons for wishing me
to be in a secluded room at this time, but Sir Haldred is efficiently
protected even now. Stand still."

Muzzle pressed against my chest, he ran his hand over my garments for
concealed weapons, seeming slightly surprized when he found none.

"Still," he murmured as if to himself, "a man who can burst an iron lock
with his bare hands has scant need of weapons."

"You are wasting valuable time," I said impatiently. "I was sent here
tonight to kill Sir Haldred Frenton—"

"By whom?" the question was shot at me.

"By the man who sometimes goes disguised as a leper."

He nodded, a gleam in his scintillant eyes.

"My suspicions were correct, then."

"Doubtless. Listen to me closely—do you desire the death or arrest
of that man?"

Gordon laughed grimly.

"To one who wears the mark of the scorpion on his hand, my answer would be
superfluous."

"Then follow my directions and your wish shall be granted."

His eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"So that was the meaning of this open entry and non-resistance," he said
slowly. "Does the dope which dilates your eyeballs so warp your mind that you
think to lead me into ambush?"

I pressed my hands against my temples. Time was racing and every moment
was precious—how could I convince this man of my honesty?

"Listen; my name is Stephen Costigan of America. I was a frequenter of Yun
Shatu's dive and a hashish addict—as you have guessed, but just now a
slave of stronger dope. By virtue of this slavery, the man you know as a
false leper, whom Yun Shatu and his friends call 'Master,' gained dominance
over me and sent me here to murder Sir Haldred—why, God only knows. But
I have gained a space of respite by coming into possession of some of this
dope which I must have in order to live, and I fear and hate this Master.
Listen to me and I swear, by all things holy and unholy, that before the sun
rises the false leper shall be in your power!"

I could tell that Gordon was impressed in spite of himself.

"Speak fast!" he rapped.

Still I could sense his disbelief and a wave of futility swept over
me.

"If you will not act with me," I said, "let me go and somehow I'll find a
way to get to the Master and kill him. My time is short—my hours are
numbered and my vengeance is yet to be realized."

"Let me hear your plan, and talk fast," Gordon answered.

"It is simple enough. I will return to the Masters lair and tell him I
have accomplished that which he sent me to do. You must follow closely with
your men and while I engage the Master in conversation, surround the house.
Then, at the signal, break in and kill or seize him."

Gordon frowned. "Where is this house?"

"The warehouse back of Yun Shatu's has been converted into a veritable
oriental palace."

"The warehouse!" he exclaimed. "How can that be? I had thought of that
first, but I have carefully examined it from without. The windows are closely
barred and spiders have built webs across them. The doors are nailed fast on
the outside and the seals that mark the warehouse as deserted have never been
broken or disturbed in any way."

"They tunneled up from beneath," I answered. "The Temple of Dreams is
directly connected with the warehouse."

"I have traversed the alley between the two buildings," said Gordon, "and
the doors of the warehouse opening into that alley are, as I have said,
nailed shut from without just as the owners left them. There is apparently no
rear exit of any kind from the Temple of Dreams."

"A tunnel connects the buildings, with one door in the rear room of Yun
Shatu's and the other in the idol room of the warehouse."

"I have been in Yun Shatu's back room and found no such door."

"The table rests upon it. You noted the heavy table in the center of the
room? Had you turned it around the secret door would have opened in the
floor. Now this is my plan: I will go in through the Temple of Dreams and
meet the Master in the idol room. You will have men secretly stationed in
front of the warehouse and others upon the other street, in front of the
Temple of Dreams. Yun Shatu's building, as you know, faces the waterfront,
while the warehouse, fronting the opposite direction, faces a narrow street
running parallel with the river. At the signal let the men in this street
break open the front of the warehouse and rush in, while simultaneously those
in front of Yun Shatu's make an invasion through the Temple of Dreams. Let
these make for the rear room, shooting without mercy any who may seek to
deter them, and there open the secret door as I have said. There being, to
the best of my knowledge, no other exit from the Master's lair, he and his
servants will necessarily seek to make their escape through the tunnel. Thus
we will have them on both sides."

Gordon ruminated while I studied his face with breathless interest.

"This may be a snare," he muttered, "or an attempt to draw me away from
Sir Haldred, but—"

I held my breath.

"I am a gambler by nature," he said slowly. "I am going to follow what you
Americans call a hunch—but God help you if you are lying to me!"

I sprang erect.

"Thank God! Now aid me with this suit, for I must be wearing it when I
return to the automobile waiting for me."

His eyes narrowed as I shook out the horrible masquerade and prepared to
don it.

"This shows, as always, the touch of the master hand. You were doubtless
instructed to leave marks of your hands, encased in those hideous
gauntlets?"

"Yes, though I have no idea why."

"I think I have—the Master is famed for leaving no real clues to
mark his crimes—a great ape escaped from a neighboring zoo earlier in
the evening and it seems too obvious for mere chance, in the light of this
disguise. The ape would have gotten the blame of Sir Haldred's death."

The thing was easily gotten into and the illusion of reality it created
was so perfect as to draw a shudder from me as I viewed myself in a
mirror.

"It is now two o'clock," said Gordon."Allowing for the time it will take
you to get back to Limehouse and the time it will take me to get my men
stationed, I promise you that at half-past four the house will be closely
surrounded. Give me a start—wait here until I have left this house, so
I will arrive at least as soon as you."

"Good!" I impulsively grasped his hand. "There will doubtless be a girl
there who is in no way implicated with the Master's evil doings, but only a
victim of circumstances such as I have been. Deal gently with her."

"It shall be done. What signal shall I look for?"

"I have no way of signaling for you and I doubt if any sound in the house
could be heard on the street. Let your men make their raid on the stroke of
five."

I turned to go.

"A man is waiting for you with a car, I take it? Is he likely to suspect
anything?"

"I have a way of finding out, and if he does," I replied grimly, "I will
return alone to the Temple of Dreams."

THE door closed softly behind me, the great dark house
looming up more starkly than ever. Stooping, I crossed the wet lawn at a run,
a grotesque and unholy figure, I doubt not, since any man had at a glance
sworn me to be not a man but a giant ape. So craftily had the Master
devised!

I clambered the wall, dropped to the earth beyond and made my way through
the darkness and the drizzle to the group of trees which masked the
automobile.

The Negro driver leaned out of the front seat. I was breathing hard and
sought in various ways to simulate the actions of a man who has just murdered
in cold blood and fled the scene of his crime.

"You heard nothing, no sound, no scream?" I hissed, gripping his arm.

"No noise except a slight crash when you first went in," he answered. "You
did a good job—nobody passing along the road could have suspected
anything."

"Have you remained in the car all the time?" I asked. And when he replied
that he had, I seized his ankle and ran my hand over the soles of his shoe;
it was perfectly dry, as was the cuff of his trouser leg. Satisfied, I
climbed into the back seat. Had he taken a step on the earth, shoe and
garment would have showed it by the telltale dampness.

I ordered him to refrain from starting the engine until I had removed the
apeskin, and then we sped through the night and I fell victim to doubts and
uncertainties. Why should Gordon put any trust in the word of a stranger and
a former ally of the Master's? Would he not put my tale down as the ravings
of a dope-crazed addict, or a lie to ensnare or befool him? Still, if he had
not believed me, why had he let me go?

I could but trust. At any rate, what Gordon did or did not do would
scarcely affect my fortunes ultimately, even though Zuleika had furnished me
with that which would merely extend the number of my days. My thought
centered on her, and more than my hope of vengeance on Kathulos was the hope
that Gordon might be able to save her from the clutches of the fiend. At any
rate, I thought grimly, if Gordon failed me, I still had my hands and if I
might lay them upon the bony frame of the Skull-faced One—

Abruptly I found myself thinking of Yussef Ali and his strange words, the
import of which just occurred to me, "The Master has promised her to me in
the days of the empire!"

The days of the empire—what could that mean?

The automobile at last drew up in front of the building which hid the
Temple of Silence—now dark and still. The ride had seemed interminable
and as I dismounted I glanced at the timepiece on the dashboard of the car.
My heart leaped—it was four thirty-four, and unless my eyes tricked me
I saw a movement in the shadows across the street, out of the flare of the
street lamp. At this time of night it could mean only one of two
things—some menial of the Master watching for my return or else Gordon
had kept his word. The Negro drove away and I opened the door, crossed the
deserted bar and entered the opium room. The bunks and the floor were
littered with the dreamers, for such places as these know nothing of day or
night as normal people know, but all lay deep in sottish slumber.

The lamps glimmered through the smoke and a silence hung mist-like over
all.

"He saw gigantic tracks of death,
And many a shape of doom."
—Chesterton

TWO of the China-boys squatted among the smudge fires,
staring at me unwinkingly as I threaded my way among the recumbent bodies and
made my way to the rear door. For the first time I traversed the corridor
alone and found time to wonder again as to the contents of the strange chests
which lined the walls.

Four raps on the underside of the floor, and a moment later I stood in the
idol room. I gasped in amazement—the fact that across a table from me
sat Kathulos in all his horror was not the cause of my exclamation. Except
for the table, the chair on which the Skull-faced One sat and the altar
— now bare of incense—the room was perfectly bare! Drab, unlovely
walls of the unused warehouse met my gaze instead of the costly tapestries I
had become accustomed to. The palms, the idol, the lacquered screen—all
were gone.

"Ah, Mr. Costigan, you wonder, no doubt."

The dead voice of the Master broke in on my thoughts. His serpent eyes
glittered balefully. The long yellow fingers twined sinuously upon the
table.

"You thought me to be a trusting fool, no doubt!" he rapped suddenly. "Did
you think I would not have you followed? You fool, Yussef Ali was at your
heels every moment!"

An instant I stood speechless, frozen by the crash of these words against
my brain; then as their import sank home, I launched myself forward with a
roar. At the same instant, before my clutching fingers could close on the
mocking horror on the other side of the table, men rushed from every side. I
whirled, and with the clarity of hate, from the swirl of savage faces I
singled out Yussef Ali, and crashed my right fist against his temple with
every ounce of my strength. Even as he dropped, Hassim struck me to my knees
and a Chinaman flung a man-net over my shoulders. I heaved erect, bursting
the stout cords as if they were strings, and then a blackjack in the hands of
Ganra Singh stretched me stunned and bleeding on the floor.

Lean sinewy hands seized and bound me with cords that cut cruelly into my
flesh. Emerging from the mists of semi-unconsciousness, I found myself lying
on the altar with the masked Kathulos towering over me like a gaunt ivory
tower. About in a semicircle stood Ganra Singh, Yar Khan, Yun Shatu and
several others whom I knew as frequenters of the Temple of Dreams. Beyond
them—and the sight cut me to the heart—I saw Zuleika crouching in
a doorway, her face white and her hands pressed against her cheeks, in an
attitude of abject terror.

"I did not fully trust you," said Kathulos sibilantly, "so I sent Yussef
Ali to follow you. He reached the group of trees before you and following you
into the estate heard your very interesting conversation with John Gordon
—for he scaled the house-wall like a cat and clung to the window ledge!
Your driver delayed purposely so as to give Yussef Ali plenty of time to get
back—I have decided to change my abode anyway. My furnishings are
already on their way to another house, and as soon as we have disposed of the
traitor—you!—we shall depart also, leaving a little surprize for
your friend Gordon when he arrives at five-thirty."

My heart gave a sudden leap of hope. Yussef Ali had misunderstood, and
Kathulos lingered here in false security while the London detective force had
already silently surrounded the house. Over my shoulder I saw Zuleika vanish
from the door.

I eyed Kathulos, absolutely unaware of what he was saying. It was not long
until five—if he dallied longer—then I froze as the Egyptian
spoke a word and Li Kung, a gaunt, cadaverous Chinaman, stepped from the
silent semicircle and drew from his sleeve a long thin dagger. My eyes sought
the timepiece that still rested on the table and my heart sank. It was still
ten minutes until five. My death did not matter so much, since it simply
hastened the inevitable, but in my mind's eye I could see Kathulos and his
murderers escaping while the police awaited the stroke of five.

The Skull-face halted in some harangue, and stood in a listening attitude.
I believe his uncanny intuition warned him of danger. He spoke a quick
staccato command to Li Kung and the Chinaman sprang forward, dagger lifted
above my breast.

The air was suddenly supercharged with dynamic tension. The keen dagger-
point hovered high above me—loud and clear sounded the skirl of a
police whistle and on the heels of the sound there came a terrific crash from
the front of the warehouse!

Kathulos leaped into frenzied activity. Hissing orders like a cat
spitting, he sprang for the hidden door and the rest followed him. Things
happened with the speed of a nightmare. Li Kung had followed the rest, but
Kathulos flung a command over his shoulder and the Chinaman turned back and
came rushing toward the altar where I lay, dagger high, desperation in his
countenance.

A scream broke through the clamor and as I twisted desperately about to
avoid the descending dagger, I caught a glimpse of Kathulos dragging Zuleika
away. Then with a frenzied wrench I toppled from the altar just as Li Kung's
dagger, grazing my breast, sank inches deep into the dark-stained surface and
quivered there.

I had fallen on the side next to the wall and what was taking place in the
room I could not see, but it seemed as if far away I could hear men screaming
faintly and hideously. Then Li Kung wrenched his blade free and sprang,
tigerishly, around the end of the altar. Simultaneously a revolver cracked
from the doorway—the Chinaman spun clear around, the dagger flying from
his hand—he slumped to the floor.

Gordon came running from the doorway where a few moments earlier Zuleika
had stood, his pistol still smoking in his hand. At his heels were three
rangy, clean-cut men in plain clothes. He cut my bonds and dragged me
upright.

"Quick! Where have they gone?"

The room was empty of life save for myself, Gordon and his men, though two
dead men lay on the floor.

I found the secret door and after a few seconds' search located the lever
which opened it. Revolvers drawn, the men grouped about me and peered
nervously into the dark stairway. Not a sound came up from the total
darkness.

"This is uncanny!" muttered Gordon. "I suppose the Master and his servants
went this way when they left the building—as they are certainly not
here now!—and Leary and his men should have stopped them either in the
tunnel itself or in the rear room of Yun Shatu's. At any rate, in either
event they should have communicated with us by this time."

"Look out, sir!" one of the men exclaimed suddenly, and Gordon, with an
ejaculation, struck out with his pistol barrel and crushed the life from a
huge snake which had crawled silently up the steps from the blackness
beneath.

"Let us see into this matter," said he, straightening.

But before he could step onto the first stair, I halted him; for, flesh
crawling, I began dimly to understand something of what had happened—I
began to understand the silence in the tunnel, the absence of the detectives,
the screams I had heard some minutes previously while I lay on the altar.
Examining the lever which opened the door, I found another smaller lever
—I began to believe I knew what those mysterious chests in the tunnel
contained.

"Gordon," I said hoarsely, "have you an electric torch?"

One of the men produced a large one.

"Direct the light into the tunnel, but as you value your life, do not put
a foot upon the steps."

The beam of light struck through the shadows, lighting the tunnel, etching
out boldly a scene that will haunt my brain all the rest of my life. On the
floor of the tunnel, between the chests which now gaped open, lay two men who
were members of London's finest secret service. Limbs twisted and faces
horribly distorted they lay, and above and about them writhed, in long
glittering scaly shimmerings, scores of hideous reptiles.

"He seemed a beggar such as lags
Looking for crusts and ale."
—Chesterton

THE cold gray dawn was stealing over the river as we stood
in the deserted bar of the Temple of Dreams. Gordon was questioning the two
men who had remained on guard outside the building while their unfortunate
companion, went in to explore the tunnel.

"As soon as we heard the whistle, sir, Leary and Murken rushed the bar and
broke into the opium room, while we waited here at the bar door according to
orders. Right away several ragged dopers came tumbling out and we grabbed
them. But no one else came out and we heard nothing from Leary and Murken; so
we just waited until you came, sir."

"You saw nothing of a giant Negro, or of the Chinaman Yun Shatu?"

"No, sir. After a while the patrolmen arrived and we threw a cordon around
the house, but no one was seen."

Gordon shrugged his shoulders; a few cursory questions had satisfied him
that the captives were harmless addicts and he had them released.

"You are sure no one else came out?"

"Yes, sir—no, wait a moment. A wretched old blind beggar did come
out, all rags and dirt and with a ragged girl leading him. We stopped him but
didn't hold him—a wretch like that couldn't be harmful."

"No?" Gordon jerked out. "Which way did he go?"

"The girl led him down the street to the next block and then an automobile
stopped and they got in and drove off, sir."

Gordon glared at him.

"The stupidity of the London detective has rightfully become an
international jest," he said acidly. "No doubt it never occurred to you as
being strange that a Limehouse beggar should ride about in his own
automobile."

Then impatiently waving aside the man, who sought to speak further, he
turned to me and I saw the lines of weariness beneath his eyes.

"Mr. Costigan, if you will come to my apartment we may be able to clear up
some new things."

"Oh the new spears dipped in life- blood as the
woman shrieked in vain!
Oh the days before the English! When will those days come again?"
— Mundy

GORDON struck a match and absently allowed it to flicker and
go out in his hand. His Turkish cigarette hung unlighted between his
fingers.

"This is the most logical conclusion to be reached," he was saying. "The
weak link in our chain was lack of men. But curse it, one cannot round up an
army at two o'clock in the morning, even with the aid of Scotland Yard. I
went on to Limehouse, leaving orders for a number of patrolmen to follow me
as quickly as they could be got together, and to throw a cordon about the
house.

"They arrived too late to prevent the Master's servants slipping out of
the side doors and windows, no doubt, as they could easily do with only
Finnegan and Hansen on guard at the front of the building. However, they
arrived in time to prevent the Master himself from slipping out in that way
—no doubt he lingered to effect his disguise and was caught in that
manner. He owes his escape to his craft and boldness and to the carelessness
of Finnegan and Hansen. The girl who accompanied him—"

"She was Zuleika, without doubt."

I answered listlessly, wondering anew what shackles bound her to the
Egyptian sorcerer.

"You owe your life to her," Gordon rapped, lighting another match. "We
were standing in the shadows in front of the warehouse, waiting for the hour
to strike, and of course ignorant as to what was going on in the house, when
a girl appeared at one of the barred windows and begged us for God's sake to
do something, that a man was being murdered. So we broke in at once. However,
she was not to be seen when we entered."

"She returned to the room, no doubt," I muttered, "and was forced to
accompany the Master. God grant he knows nothing of her trickery."

"I do not know," said Gordon, dropping the charred match stem, "whether
she guessed at our true identity or whether she just made the appeal in
desperation.

"However, the main point is this: evidence points to the fact that, on
hearing the whistle, Leary and Murken invaded Yun Shatu's from the front at
the same instant my three men and I made our attack on the warehouse front.
As it took us some seconds to batter down the door, it is logical to suppose
that they found the secret door and entered the tunnel before we affected an
entrance into the warehouse.

"The Master, knowing our plans beforehand, and being aware that an
invasion would be made through the tunnel and having long ago made
preparations for such an exigency—"

An involuntary shudder shook me.

"—the Master worked the lever that opened the chest—the screams
you heard as you lay upon the altar were the death shrieks of Leary and
Murken. Then, leaving the Chinaman behind to finish you, the Master and the
rest descended into the tunnel—incredible as it seems—and
threading their way unharmed among the serpents, entered Yun Shatu's house
and escaped therefrom as I have said."

"That seems impossible. Why should not the snakes turn on them?"

Gordon finally ignited his cigarette and puffed a few seconds before
replying.

"The reptiles might still have been giving their full and hideous
attention to the dying men, or else—I have on previous occasions been
confronted with indisputable proof of the Master's dominance over beasts and
reptiles of even the lowest or most dangerous orders. How he and his slaves
passed unhurt among those scaly fiends must remain, at present, one of the
many unsolved mysteries pertaining to that strange man."

I stirred restlessly in my chair. This brought up a point for the purpose
of clearing up which I had come to Gordon's neat but bizarre apartments.

"You have not yet told me," I said abruptly, "who this man is and what is
his mission."

"As to who he is, I can only say that he is known as you name him—
the Master. I have never seen him unmasked, nor do I know his real name nor
his nationality."

"I can enlighten you to an extent there," I broke in. "I have seen him
unmasked and have heard the name his slaves call him."

Gordon's eyes blazed and he leaned forward.

"His name," I continued, "is Kathulos and he claims to be an
Egyptian."

"Kathulos!" Gordon repeated. "You say he claims to be an Egyptian—
have you any reason for doubting his claim of that nationality?"

"He may be of Egypt," I answered slowly, "but he is different, somehow,
from any human I ever saw or hope to see. Great age might account for some of
his peculiarities, but there are certain lineal differences that my
anthropological studies tell me have been present since birth—features
which would be abnormal to any other man but which are perfectly normal in
Kathulos. That sounds paradoxical, I admit, but to appreciate fully the
horrid inhumanness of the man, you would have to see him yourself."

Gordon sat at attention while I swiftly sketched the appearance of the
Egyptian as I remembered him—and that appearance was indelibly etched
on my brain forever.

As I finished he nodded.

"As I have said, I never saw Kathulos except when disguised as a beggar, a
leper or some such thing—when he was fairly swathed in rags. Still, I
too have been impressed with a strange difference about him—something
that is not present in other men."

Gordon tapped his knee with his fingers—a habit of his when deeply
engrossed by a problem of some sort.

"You have asked as to the mission of this man," he began slowly. "I will
tell you all I know."

"My position with the British government is a unique and peculiar one. I
hold what might be called a roving commission—an office created solely
for the purpose of suiting my special needs. As a secret service official
during the war, I convinced the powers of a need of such office and of my
ability to fill it.

"Somewhat over seventeen months ago I was sent to South Africa to
investigate the unrest which has been growing among the natives of the
interior ever since the World War and which has of late assumed alarming
proportions. There I first got on the track of this man Kathulos. I found, in
roundabout ways, that Africa was a seething cauldron of rebellion from
Morocco to Cape Town. The old, old vow had been made again—the Negroes
and the Mohammedans, banded together, should drive the white men into the
sea.

"This pact has been made before but always, hitherto, broken. Now,
however, I sensed a giant intellect and a monstrous genius behind the veil, a
genius powerful enough to accomplish this union and hold it together. Working
entirely on hints and vague whispered clues, I followed the trail up through
Central Africa and into Egypt. There, at last, I came upon definite evidence
that such a man existed. The whispers hinted of a living dead man—a
skull-faced man. I learned that this man was the high priest of the
mysterious Scorpion society of northern Africa. He was spoken of variously as
Skull-face, the Master, and the Scorpion.

"Following a trail of bribed officials and filched state secrets, I at
last trailed him to Alexandria, where I had my first sight of him in a dive
in the native quarter—disguised as a leper. I heard him distinctly
addressed as 'Mighty Scorpion' by the natives, but he escaped me.

"All trace vanished then; the trail ran out entirely until rumors of
strange happenings in London reached me and I came back to England to
investigate an apparent leak in the war office.

"As I thought, the Scorpion had preceded me. This man, whose education and
craft transcend anything I ever met with, is simply the leader and instigator
of a world-wide movement such as the world has never seen before. He plots,
in a word, the overthrow of the white races!

"His ultimate aim is a black empire, with himself as emperor of the world!
And to that end he has banded together in one monstrous conspiracy the black,
the brown and the yellow."

"I understand now what Yussef Ali meant when he said 'the days of the
empire,'" I muttered.

"Exactly," Gordon rapped with suppressed excitement. "Kathulos' power is
unlimited and unguessed. Like an octopus his tentacles stretch to the high
places of civilization and the far corners of the world. And his main weapon
is —dope! He has flooded Europe and no doubt America with opium and
hashish, and in spite of all effort it has been impossible to discover the
break in the barriers through which the hellish stuff is coming. With this he
ensnares and enslaves men and women.

"You have told me of the aristocratic men and women you saw coming to Yun
Shatu's dive. Without doubt they were dope addicts—for, as I said, the
habit lurks in high places—holders of governmental positions, no doubt,
coming to trade for the stuff they craved and giving in return state secrets,
inside information and promise of protection for the Master's crimes.

"Oh, he does not work haphazardly! Before ever the black flood breaks, he
will be prepared; if he has his way, the governments of the white races will
be honeycombs of corruption—the strongest men of the white races will
be dead. The white men's secrets of war will be his. When it comes, I look
for a simultaneous uprising against white supremacy, of all the colored races
— races who, in the last war, learned the white men's ways of battle,
and who, led by such a man as Kathulos and armed with white men's finest
weapons, will be almost invincible.

"A steady stream of rifles and ammunition has been pouring into East
Africa and it was not until I discovered the source that it was stopped. I
found that a staid and reliable Scotch firm was smuggling these arms among
the natives and I found more: the manager of this firm was an opium slave.
That was enough. I saw Kathulos' hand in the matter. The manager was arrested
and committed suicide in his cell—that is only one of the many
situations with which I am called upon to deal.

"Again, the case of Major Fairlan Morley. He, like myself, held a very
flexible commission and had been sent to the Transvaal to work upon the same
case. He sent to London a number of secret papers for safekeeping. They
arrived some weeks ago and were put in a bank vault. The letter accompanying
them gave explicit instructions that they were to be delivered to no one but
the major himself, when he called for them in person, or in event of his
death, to myself.

"As soon as I learned that he had sailed from Africa I sent trusted men to
Bordeaux, where he intended to make his first landing in Europe. They did not
succeed in saving the major's life, but they certified his death, for they
found his body in a deserted ship whose hulk was stranded on the beach.
Efforts were made to keep the affair a secret but somehow it leaked into the
papers with the result—"

"I begin to understand why I was to impersonate the unfortunate major," I
interrupted.

"Exactly. A false beard furnished you, and your black hair dyed blond, you
would have presented yourself at the bank, received the papers from the
banker, who knew Major Morley just intimately enough to be deceived by your
appearance, and the papers would have then fallen into the hands of the
Master.

"I can only guess at the contents of those papers, for events have been
taking place too swiftly for me to call for and obtain them. But they must
deal with subjects closely connected with the activities of Kathulos. How he
learned of them and of the provisions of the letter accompanying them, I have
no idea, but as I said, London is honeycombed with his spies.

"In my search for clues, I often frequented Limehouse disguised as you
first saw me. I went often to the Temple of Dreams and even once managed to
enter the back room, for I suspected some sort of rendezvous in the rear of
the building. The absence of any exit baffled me and I had no time to search
for secret doors before I was ejected by the giant black man Hassim, who had
no suspicion of my true identity. I noticed that very often the leper entered
or left Yun Shatu's, and finally it was borne on me that past a shadow of
doubt this supposed leper was the Scorpion himself.

"That night you discovered me on the couch in the opium room, I had come
there with no especial plan in mind. Seeing Kathulos leaving, I determined to
rise and follow him, but you spoiled that."

He fingered his chin and laughed grimly.

"I was an amateur boxing champion in Oxford," said he, "but Tom Cribb
himself could not have withstood that blow—or have dealt it."

"I regret it as I regret few things."

"No need to apologize. You saved my life immediately afterward—I was
stunned, but not too much to know that that brown devil Yussef Ali was
burning to cut out my heart."

"How did you come to be at Sir Haldred Frenton's estate? And how is it
that you did not raid Yun Shatu's dive?"

"I did not have the place raided because I knew somehow Kathulos would be
warned and our efforts would come to naught. I was at Sir Haldred's that
night because I have contrived to spend at least part of each night with him
since he returned from the Congo. I anticipated an attempt upon his life when
I learned from his own lips that he was preparing, from the studies he made
on this trip, a treatise on the secret native societies of West Africa. He
hinted that the disclosures he intended to make therein might prove
sensational, to say the least. Since it is to Kathulos' advantage to destroy
such men as might be able to arouse the Western world to its danger, I knew
that Sir Haldred was a marked man. Indeed, two distinct attempts were made
upon his life on his journey to the coast from the African interior. So I put
two trusted men on guard and they are at their post even now.

"Roaming about the darkened house, I heard the noise of your entry, and,
warning my men, I stole down to intercept you. At the time of our
conversation, Sir Haldred was sitting in his unlighted study, a Scotland Yard
man with drawn pistol on each side of him. Their vigilance no doubt accounts
for Yussef Ali's failure to attempt what you were sent to do.

"Something in your manner convinced me in spite of yourself," he
meditated. "I will admit I had some bad moments of doubt as I waited in the
darkness that precedes dawn, outside the warehouse."

Gordon rose suddenly and going to a strong box which stood in a corner of
the room, drew thence a thick envelope.

"Although Kathulos has checkmated me at almost every move," he said, "I
have not been entirely idle. Noting the frequenters of Yun Shatu's, I have
compiled a partial list of the Egyptian's right-hand men, and their records.
What you have told me has enabled me to complete that list. As we know, his
henchmen are scattered all over the world, and there are possibly hundreds of
them here in London. However, this is a list of those I believe to be in his
closest council, now with him in England. He told you himself that few even
of his followers ever saw him unmasked."

We bent together over the list, which contained the following names: "Yun
Shatu, Hongkong Chinese, suspected opium smuggler—keeper of Temple of
Dreams—resident of Limehouse seven years. Hassim, ex-Senegalese Chief
—wanted in French Congo for murder. Santiago, Negro—fled from
Haiti under suspicion of voodoo worship atrocities. Yar Khan, Afridi, record
unknown. Yussef Ali, Moor, slave-dealer in Morocco—suspected of being a
German spy in the World War—an instigator of the Fellaheen Rebellion on
the upper Nile. Ganra Singh, Lahore, India, Sikh—smuggler of arms into
Afghanistan—took an active part in the Lahore and Delhi riots—
suspected of murder on two occasions—a dangerous man. Stephen Costigan,
American—resident in England since the war—hashish addict
—man of remarkable strength. Li Kung, northern China, opium
smuggler."

Lines were drawn significantly through three names—mine, Li Kung's
and Yussef Ali's. Nothing was written next to mine, but following Li Kung's
name was scrawled briefly in Gordon's rambling characters: "Shot by John
Gordon during the raid on Yun Shatu's." And following the name of Yussef Ali:
"Killed by Stephen Costigan during the Yun Shatu raid."

I laughed mirthlessly. Black empire or not, Yussef Ali would never hold
Zuleika in his arms, for he had never risen from where I felled him.

"I know not," said Gordon somberly as he folded the list and replaced it
in the envelope, "what power Kathulos has that draws together black men and
yellow men to serve him—that unites world-old foes. Hindu, Moslem and
pagan are among his followers. And back in the mists of the East where
mysterious and gigantic forces are at work, this uniting is culminating on a
monstrous scale."

He glanced at his watch.

"It is nearly ten. Make yourself at home here, Mr. Costigan, while I visit
Scotland Yard and see if any clue has been found as to Kathulos' new
quarters. I believe that the webs are closing on him, and with your aid I
promise you we will have the gang located within a week at most."

"The fed wolf curls by his drowsy mate
In a tight-trod earth; but the lean wolves wait."
—Mundy

I SAT alone in John Gordon's apartments and laughed
mirthlessly. In spite of the elixir's stimulus, the strain of the previous
night, with its loss of sleep and its heartrending actions, was telling on
me. My mind was a chaotic whirl wherein the faces of Gordon, Kathulos and
Zuleika shifted with numbing swiftness. All the mass of information Gordon
had given to me seemed jumbled and incoherent.

Through this state of being, one fact stood out boldly. I must find the
latest hiding-place of the Egyptian and get Zuleika out of his hands—if
indeed she still lived.

A week, Gordon had said—I laughed again—a week and I would be
beyond aiding anyone. I had found the proper amount of elixir to use
—knew the minimum amount my system required—and knew that I could
make the flask last me four days at most. Four days! Four days in which to
comb the rat-holes of Limehouse and Chinatown—four days in which to
ferret out, somewhere in the mazes of East End, the lair of Kathulos.

I burned with impatience to begin, but nature rebelled, and staggering to
a couch, I fell upon it and was asleep instantly.

Then someone was shaking me.

"Wake up, Mr. Costigan!"

I sat up, blinking. Gordon stood over me, his face haggard.

"There's devil's work done, Costigan! The Scorpion has struck again!"

I sprang up, still half-asleep and only partly realizing what he was
saying. He helped me into my coat, thrust my hat at me, and then his firm
grip on my arm was propelling me out of his door and down the stairs. The
street lights were blazing; I had slept an incredible time.

"A logical victim!" I was aware that my companion was saying. "He should
have notified me the instant of his arrival!"

"I don't understand—" I began dazedly.

We were at the curb now and Gordon hailed a taxi, giving the address of a
small and unassuming hotel in a staid and prim section of the city.

"The Baron Rokoff," he rapped as we whirled along at reckless speed, "a
Russian free-lance, connected with the war office. He returned from Mongolia
yesterday and apparently went into hiding. Undoubtedly he had learned
something vital in regard to the slow waking of the East. He had not yet
communicated with us, and I had no idea that he was in England until just
now."

"And you learned—"

"The baron was found in his room, his dead body mutilated in a frightful
manner!"

The respectable and conventional hotel which the doomed baron had chosen
for his hiding-place was in a state of mild uproar, suppressed by the police.
The management had attempted to keep the matter quiet, but somehow the guests
had learned of the atrocity and many were leaving in haste—or preparing
to, as the police were holding all for investigation.

The baron's room, which was on the top floor, was in a state to defy
description. Not even in the Great War have I seen a more complete shambles.
Nothing had been touched; all remained just as the chambermaid had found it a
half-hour since. Tables and chairs lay shattered on the floor, and the
furniture, floor and walls were spattered with blood. The baron, a tall,
muscular man in life, lay in the middle of the room, a fearful spectacle. His
skull had been cleft to the brows, a deep gash under his left armpit had
shorn through his ribs, and his left arm hung by a shred of flesh. The cold
bearded face was set in a look of indescribable horror.

"Some heavy, curved weapon must have been used," said Gordon, "something
like a saber, wielded with terrific force. See where a chance blow sank
inches deep into the windowsill. And again, the thick back of this heavy
chair has been split like a shingle. A saber, surely."

"A tulwar," I muttered, somberly. "Do you not recognize the handiwork of
the Central Asian butcher? Yar Khan has been here."

"The Afghan! He came across the roofs, of course, and descended to the
window-ledge by means of a knotted rope made fast to something on the edge of
the roof. About one-thirty the maid, passing through the corridor, heard a
terrific commotion in the baron's room—smashing of chairs and a sudden
short shriek which died abruptly into a ghastly gurgle and then ceased
— to the sound of heavy blows, curiously muffled, such as a sword might
make when driven deep into human flesh. Then all noises stopped suddenly.

"She called the manager and they tried the door and, finding it locked,
and receiving no answer to their shouts, opened it with the desk key. Only
the corpse was there, but the window was open. This is strangely unlike
Kathulos' usual procedure. It lacks subtlety. Often his victims have appeared
to have died from natural causes. I scarcely understand."

"I see little difference in the outcome," I answered. "There is nothing
that can be done to apprehend the murderer as it is."

"True," Gordon scowled. "We know who did it but there is no proof—
not even a fingerprint. Even if we knew where the Afghan is hiding and
arrested him, we could prove nothing—there would be a score of men to
swear alibis for him. The baron returned only yesterday. Kathulos probably
did not know of his arrival until tonight. He knew that on the morrow Rokoff
would make known his presence to me and impart what he learned in northern
Asia. The Egyptian knew he must strike quickly, and lacking time to prepare a
safer and more elaborate form of murder, he sent the Afridi with his tulwar.
There is nothing we can do, at least not until we discover the Scorpion's
hiding-place; what the baron had learned in Mongolia, we shall never know,
but that it dealt with the plans and aspirations of Kathulos, we may be
sure."

We went down the stairs again and out on the street, accompanied by one of
the Scotland Yard men, Hansen. Gordon suggested that we walk back to his
apartment and I greeted the opportunity to let the cool night air blow some
of the cobwebs out of my mazed brain.

As we walked along the deserted streets, Gordon suddenly cursed
savagely.

"This is a veritable labyrinth we are following, leading nowhere! Here, in
the very heart of civilization's metropolis, the direct enemy of that
civilization commits crimes of the most outrageous nature and goes free! We
are children, wandering in the night, struggling with an unseen evil—
dealing with an incarnate devil, of whose true identity we know nothing and
whose true ambitions we can only guess.

"Never have we managed to arrest one of the Egyptian's direct henchmen,
and the few dupes and tools of his we have apprehended have died mysteriously
before they could tell us anything. Again I repeat: what strange power has
Kathulos that dominates these men of different creeds and races? The men in
London with him are, of course, mostly renegades, slaves of dope, but his
tentacles stretch all over the East. Some dominance is his: the power that
sent the Chinaman, Li Kung, back to kill you, in the face of certain death;
that sent Yar Khan the Moslem over the roofs of London to do murder; that
holds Zuleika the Circassian in unseen bonds of slavery.

"Of course we know," he continued after a brooding silence, "that the East
has secret societies which are behind and above all considerations of creeds.
There are cults in Africa and the Orient whose origin dates back to Ophir and
the fall of Atlantis. This man must be a power in some or possibly all of
these societies. Why, outside the Jews, I know of no oriental race which is
so cordially despised by the other Eastern races, as the Egyptians! Yet here
we have a man, an Egyptian by his own word, controlling the lives and
destinies of orthodox Moslems, Hindus, Shintos and devil-worshippers. It's
unnatural.

"Have you ever"—he turned to me abruptly—"heard the ocean
mentioned in connection with Kathulos?"

"Never."

"There is a widespread superstition in northern Africa, based on a very
ancient legend, that the great leader of the colored races would come out of
the sea! And I once heard a Berber speak of the Scorpion as 'The Son of the
Ocean.'"

"Laughing as littered skulls that lie
After lost battles turn to the sky
An everlasting laugh."
—Chesterton

"A SHOP open this late," Gordon remarked suddenly.

A fog had descended on London and along the quiet street we were
traversing the lights glimmered with the peculiar reddish haze characteristic
of such atmospheric conditions. Our footfalls echoed drearily. Even in the
heart of a great city there are always sections which seem overlooked and
forgotten. Such a street was this. Not even a policeman was in sight.

The shop which had attracted Gordon's attention was just in front of us,
on the same side of the street. There was no sign over the door, merely some
sort of emblem, something like a dragon. Light flowed from the open doorway
and the small show windows on each side. As it was neither a cafe nor the
entrance to a hotel we found ourselves idly speculating over its reason for
being open. Ordinarily, I suppose, neither of us would have given the matter
a thought, but our nerves were so keyed up that we found ourselves
instinctively suspicious of anything out of the ordinary. Then something
occurred which was distinctly out of the ordinary.

A very tall, very thin man, considerably stooped, suddenly loomed up out
of the fog in front of us, and beyond the shop. I had only a glance of him
—an impression of incredible gauntness, of worn, wrinkled garments, a
high silk hat drawn close over the brows, a face entirely hidden by a
muffler; then he turned aside and entered the shop. A cold wind whispered
down the street, twisting the fog into wispy ghosts, but the coldness that
came upon me transcended the wind's.

"Gordon!" I exclaimed in a fierce, low voice; "my senses are no longer
reliable or else Kathulos himself has just gone into that house!"

Gordon's eyes blazed. We were now close to the shop, and lengthening his
strides into a run he hurled himself into the door, the detective and I close
upon his heels.

A weird assortment of merchandise met our eyes. Antique weapons covered
the walls, and the floor was piled high with curious things. Maori idols
shouldered Chinese josses, and suits of medieval armor bulked darkly against
stacks of rare oriental rugs and Latin-make shawls. The place was an antique
shop. Of the figure who had aroused our interest we saw nothing.

An old man clad bizarrely in red fez, brocaded jacket and Turkish slippers
came from the back of the shop; he was a Levantine of some sort.

"You wish something, sirs?"

"You keep open rather late," Gordon said abruptly, his eyes traveling
swiftly over the shop for some secret hiding-place that might conceal the
object of our search.

"Yes, sir. My customers number many eccentric professors and students who
keep very irregular hours. Often the night boats unload special pieces for me
and very often I have customers later than this. I remain open all night,
sir."

"We are merely looking around," Gordon returned, and in an aside to
Hansen: "Go to the back and stop anyone who tries to leave that way."

Hansen nodded and strolled casually to the rear of the shop. The back door
was clearly visible to our view, through a vista of antique furniture and
tarnished hangings strung up for exhibition. We had followed the Scorpion
—if he it was—so closely that I did not believe he would have had
time to traverse the full length of the shop and make his exit without our
having seen him as we came in. For our eyes had been on the rear door ever
since we had entered.

Gordon and I browsed around casually among the curios, handling and
discussing some of them but I have no idea as to their nature. The Levantine
had seated himself cross-legged on a Moorish mat close to the center of the
shop and apparently took only a polite interest in our explorations.

After a time Gordon whispered to me: "There is no advantage in keeping up
this pretense. We have looked everywhere the Scorpion might be hiding, in the
ordinary manner. I will make known my identity and authority and we will
search the entire building openly."

Even as he spoke a truck drew up outside the door and two burly Negroes
entered. The Levantine seemed to have expected them, for he merely waved them
toward the back of the shop and they responded with a grunt of
understanding.

Gordon and I watched them closely as they made their way to a large mummy-
case which stood upright against the wall not far from the back. They lowered
this to a level position and then started for the door, carrying it carefully
between them.

"Halt!" Gordon stepped forward, raising his hand authoritatively.

"I represent Scotland Yard," he said swiftly, "and have sanction for
anything I choose to do. Set that mummy down; nothing leaves this shop until
we have thoroughly searched it."

The Negroes obeyed without a word and my friend turned to the Levantine,
who, apparently not perturbed or even interested, sat smoking a Turkish
water- pipe.

"Who was that tall man who entered just before we did, and where did he
go?"

"No one entered before you, sir. Or, if anyone did, I was at the back of
the shop and did not see him. You are certainly at liberty to search my shop,
sir."

And search it we did, with the combined craft of a secret service expert
and a denizen of the underworld—while Hansen stood stolidly at his
post, the two Negroes standing over the carved mummy-case watched us
impassively and the Levantine sitting like a sphinx on his mat, puffing a fog
of smoke into the air. The whole thing had a distinct effect of
unreality.

At last, baffled, we returned to the mummy-case, which was certainly long
enough to conceal even a man of Kathulos' height. The thing did not appear to
be sealed as is the usual custom, and Gordon opened it without difficulty. A
formless shape, swathed in moldering wrappings, met our eyes. Gordon parted
some of the wrappings and revealed an inch or so of withered, brownish,
leathery arm. He shuddered involuntarily as he touched it, as a man will do
at the touch of a reptile or some inhumanly cold thing. Taking a small metal
idol from a stand nearby, he rapped on the shrunken breast and the arm. Each
gave out a solid thumping, like some sort of wood.

Gordon shrugged his shoulders. "Dead for two thousand years anyway and I
don't suppose I should risk destroying a valuable mummy simply to prove what
we know to be true."

He closed the case again.

"The mummy may have crumbled some, even from this much exposure, but
perhaps it did not."

This last was addressed to the Levantine who replied merely by a courteous
gesture of his hand, and the Negroes once more lifted the case and carried it
to the truck, where they loaded it on, and a moment later mummy, truck and
Negroes had vanished in the fog.

Gordon still nosed about the shop, but I stood stock-still in the center
of the floor. To my chaotic and dope-ridden brain I attribute it, but the
sensation had been mine, that through the wrappings of the mummy's face,
great eyes had burned into mine, eyes like pools of yellow fire, that seared
my soul and froze me where I stood. And as the case had been carried through
the door, I knew that the lifeless thing in it, dead, God only knows how many
centuries, was laughing, hideously and silently.

"I suppose we must chalk up another failure against ourselves. That
Levantine, Kamonos, is evidently a creature of the Egyptian's and the walls
and floors of his shop are probably honeycombed with secret panels and doors
which would baffle a magician."

Hansen made some answer but I said nothing. Since our return to Gordon's
apartment, I had been conscious of a feeling of intense languor and
sluggishness which not even my condition could account for. I knew that my
system was full of the elixir—but my mind seemed strangely slow and
hard of comprehension in direct contrast with the average state of my
mentality when stimulated by the hellish dope.

This condition was slowly leaving me, like mist floating from the surface
of a lake, and I felt as if I were waking gradually from a long and
unnaturally sound sleep.

Gordon was saying: "I would give a good deal to know if Kamonos is really
one of Kathulos' slaves or if the Scorpion managed to make his escape through
some natural exit as we entered."

"Kamonos is his servant, true enough," I found myself saying slowly, as if
searching for the proper words. "As we left, I saw his gaze light upon the
scorpion which is traced on my hand. His eyes narrowed, and as we were
leaving he contrived to brush close against me—and to whisper in a
quick low voice: 'Soho, 48.'"

Gordon came erect like a loosened steel bow.

"Indeed!" he rapped. "Why did you not tell me at the time?"

"I don't know."

My friend eyed me sharply.

"I noticed you seemed like a man intoxicated all the way from the shop,"
said he. "I attributed it to some aftermath of hashish. But no. Kathulos is
undoubtedly a masterful disciple of Mesmer—his power over venomous
reptiles shows that, and I am beginning to believe it is the real source of
his power over humans.

"Somehow, the Master caught you off your guard in that shop and partly
asserted his dominance over your mind. From what hidden nook he sent his
thought waves to shatter your brain, I do not know, but Kathulos was
somewhere in that shop, I am sure."

"He was. He was in the mummy-case."

"The mummy-case!" Gordon exclaimed rather impatiently. "That is
impossible! The mummy quite filled it and not even such a thin being as the
Master could have found room there."

I shrugged my shoulders, unable to argue the point but somehow sure of the
truth of my statement.

"Kamonos," Gordon continued, "doubtless is not a member of the inner
circle and does not know of your change of allegiance. Seeing the mark of the
scorpion, he undoubtedly supposed you to be a spy of the Master's. The whole
thing may be a plot to ensnare us, but I feel that the man was sincere
— Soho 48 can be nothing less than the Scorpion's new rendezvous."

I too felt that Gordon was right, though a suspicion lurked in my
mind.

"I secured the papers of Major Morley yesterday," be continued, "and while
you slept, I went over them. Mostly they but corroborated what I already
knew—touched on the unrest of the natives and repeated the theory that
one vast genius was behind all. But there was one matter which interested me
greatly and which I think will interest you also."

From his strong box he took a manuscript written in the close, neat
characters of the unfortunate major, and in a monotonous droning voice which
betrayed little of his intense excitement he read the following nightmarish
narrative:

"This matter I consider worth jotting down—as to whether it has any
bearing on the case at hand, further developments will show. At Alexandria,
where I spent some weeks seeking further clues as to the identity of the man
known as the Scorpion, I made the acquaintance, through my friend Ahmed Shah,
of the noted Egyptologist Professor Ezra Schuyler of New York. He verified
the statement made by various laymen, concerning the legend of the
'ocean-man.' This myth, handed down from generation to generation, stretches
back into the very mists of antiquity and is, briefly, that someday a man
shall come up out of the sea and shall lead the people of Egypt to victory
over all others. This legend has spread over the continent so that now all
black races consider that it deals with the coming of a universal emperor.
Professor Schuyler gave it as his opinion that the myth was somehow connected
with the lost Atlantis, which, he maintains, was located between the African
and South American continents and to whose inhabitants the ancestors of the
Egyptians were tributary. The reasons for his connection are too lengthy and
vague to note here, but following the line of his theory he told me a strange
and fantastic tale. He said that a close friend of his, Von Lorfmon of
Germany, a sort of free-lance scientist, now dead, was sailing off the coast
of Senegal some years ago, for the purpose of investigating and classifying
the rare specimens of sea life found there. He was using for his purpose a
small trading-vessel, manned by a crew of Moors, Greeks and Negroes.

"Some days out of sight of land, something floating was sighted, and this
object, being grappled and brought aboard, proved to be a mummy-case of a
most curious kind. Professor Schuyler explained to me the features whereby it
differed from the ordinary Egyptian style, but from his rather technical
account I merely got the impression that it was a strangely shaped affair
carved with characters neither cuneiform nor hieroglyphic. The case was
heavily lacquered, being watertight and airtight, and Von Lorfmon had
considerable difficulty in opening it. However, he managed to do so without
damaging the case, and a most unusual mummy was revealed. Schuyler said that
he never saw either the mummy or the case, but that from descriptions given
him by the Greek skipper who was present at the opening of the case, the
mummy differed as much from the ordinary man as the case differed from the
conventional type.

"Examination proved that the subject had not undergone the usual procedure
of mummification. All parts were intact just as in life, but the whole form
was shrunk and hardened to a wood-like consistency. Cloth wrappings swathed
the thing and they crumbled to dust and vanished the instant air was let in
upon them.

"Von Lorfmon was impressed by the effect upon the crew. The Greeks showed
no interest beyond that which would ordinarily be shown by any man, but the
Moors, and even more the Negroes, seemed to be rendered temporarily insane!
As the case was hoisted on board, they all fell prostrate on the deck and
raised a sort of worshipful chant, and it was necessary to use force in order
to exclude them from the cabin wherein the mummy was exposed. A number of
fights broke out between them and the Greek element of the crew, and the
skipper and Von Lorfmon thought best to put back to the nearest port in all
haste. The skipper attributed it to the natural aversion of seamen toward
having a corpse on board, but Von Lorfmon seemed to sense a deeper
meaning.

"They made port in Lagos, and that very night Von Lorfmon was murdered in
his stateroom and the mummy and its case vanished. All the Moor and Negro
sailors deserted ship the same night. Schuyler said—and here the matter
took on a most sinister and mysterious aspect—that immediately
afterward this widespread unrest among the natives began to smolder and take
tangible form; he connected it in some manner with the old legend.

"An aura of mystery, also, hung over Von Lorfmon's death. He had taken the
mummy into his stateroom, and anticipating an attack from the fanatical crew,
had carefully barred and bolted door and portholes. The skipper, a reliable
man, swore that it was virtually impossible to affect an entrance from
without. And what signs were present pointed to the fact that the locks had
been worked from within. The scientist was killed by a dagger which formed
part of his collection and which was left in his breast.

"As I have said, immediately afterward the African cauldron began to
seethe. Schuyler said that in his opinion the natives considered the ancient
prophecy fulfilled. The mummy was the man from the sea.

"Schuyler gave as his opinion that the thing was the work of Atlanteans
and that the man in the mummy-case was a native of lost Atlantis. How the
case came to float up through the fathoms of water which cover the forgotten
land, he does not venture to offer a theory. He is sure that somewhere in the
ghost- ridden mazes of the African jungles the mummy has been enthroned as a
god, and, inspired by the dead thing, the black warriors are gathering for a
wholesale massacre. He believes, also, that some crafty Moslem is the direct
moving power of the threatened rebellion."

Gordon ceased and looked up at me.

"Mummies seem to weave a weird dance through the warp of the tale," he
said. "The German scientist took several pictures of the mummy with his
camera, and it was after seeing these—which strangely enough were not
stolen along with the thing—that Major Morley began to think himself on
the brink of some monstrous discovery. His diary reflects his state of mind
and becomes incoherent—his condition seems to have bordered on
insanity. What did he learn to unbalance him so? Do you suppose that the
mesmeric spells of Kathulos were used against him?"

"These pictures—" I began.

"They fell into Schuyler's hands and he gave one to Morley. I found it
among the manuscripts."

He handed the thing to me, watching me narrowly. I stared, then rose
unsteadily and poured myself a tumbler of wine.

'"Not a dead idol in a voodoo hut," I said shakily, "but a monster
animated by fearsome life, roaming the world for victims. Morley had seen the
Master—that is why his brain crumbled. Gordon, as I hope to live again,
that face is the face of Kathulos!"

Gordon stared wordlessly at me.

"The Master hand, Gordon," I laughed. A certain grim enjoyment penetrated
the mists of my horror, at the sight of the steel-nerved Englishman struck
speechless, doubtless for the first time in his life.

He moistened his lips and said in a scarcely recognizable voice, "Then, in
God's name, Costigan, nothing is stable or certain, and mankind hovers at the
brink of untold abysses of nameless horror. If that dead monster found by Von
Lorfmon be in truth the Scorpion, brought to life in some hideous fashion,
what can mortal effort do against him?"

"The mummy at Kamonos'—" I began.

"Aye, the man whose flesh, hardened by a thousand years of non-existence
—that must have been Kathulos himself! He would have just had time to
strip, wrap himself in the linens and step into the case before we entered.
You remember that the case, leaning upright against the wall, stood partly
concealed by a large Burmese idol, which obstructed our view and doubtless
gave him time to accomplish his purpose. My God, Costigan, with what horror
of the prehistoric world are we dealing?"

"I have heard of Hindu fakirs who could induce a condition closely
resembling death," I began. "Is it not possible that Kathulos, a shrewd and
crafty Oriental, could have placed himself in this state and his followers
have placed the case in the ocean where it was sure to be found? And might
not he have been in this shape tonight at Kamonos'?"

Gordon shook his head.

"No, I have seen these fakirs. None of them ever feigned death to the
extent of becoming shriveled and hard—in a word, dried up. Morley,
narrating in another place the description of the mummy-case as jotted down
by Von Lorfmon and passed on to Schuyler, mentions the fact that large
portions of seaweed adhered to it—seaweed of a kind found only at great
depths, on the bottom of the ocean. The wood, too, was of a kind which Von
Lorfmon failed to recognize or to classify, in spite of the fact that he was
one of the greatest living authorities on flora. And his notes again and
again emphasize the enormous age of the thing. He admitted that there was no
way of telling how old the mummy was, but his hints intimate that he believed
it to be, not thousands of years old, but millions of years!

"No. We must face the facts. Since you are positive that the picture of
the mummy is the picture of Kathulos—and there is little room for fraud
—one of two things is practically certain: the Scorpion was never dead
but ages ago was placed in that mummy-case and his life preserved in some
manner, or else—he was dead and has been brought to life! Either of
these theories, viewed in the cold light of reason, is absolutely untenable.
Are we all insane?"

"Had you ever walked the road to hashish land," I said somberly, "you
could believe anything to be true. Had you ever gazed into the terrible
reptilian eyes of Kathulos the sorcerer, you would not doubt that he was both
dead and alive."

Gordon gazed out the window, his fine face haggard in the gray light which
had begun to steal through them.

"At any rate," said he, "there are two places which I intend exploring
thoroughly before the sun rises again—Kamonos' antique shop and Soho
48."

"While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down."
—Poe

HANSEN snored on the bed as I paced the room. Another day
had passed over London and again the street lamps glimmered through the fog.
Their lights affected me strangely. They seemed to beat, solid waves of
energy, against my brain. They twisted the fog into strange sinister shapes.
Footlights of the stage that is the streets of London, how many grisly scenes
had they lighted? I pressed my hands hard against my throbbing temples,
striving to bring my thoughts back from the chaotic labyrinth where they
wandered.

Gordon I had not seen since dawn. Following the clue of "Soho 48" he had
gone forth to arrange a raid upon the place and he thought it best that I
should remain under cover. He anticipated an attempt upon my life, and again
he feared that if I went searching among the dives I formerly frequented it
would arouse suspicion.

Hansen snored on. I seated myself and began to study the Turkish shoes
which clothed my feet. Zuleika had worn Turkish slippers—how she
floated through my waking dreams, gilding prosaic things with her witchery!
Her face smiled at me from the fog; her eyes shone from the flickering lamps;
her phantom footfalls re-echoed through the misty chambers of my skull.

They beat an endless tattoo, luring and haunting till it seemed that these
echoes found echoes in the hallway outside the room where I stood, soft and
stealthy. A sudden rap at the door and I started.

Hansen slept on as I crossed the room and flung the door swiftly open. A
swirling wisp of fog had invaded the corridor, and through it, like a silver
veil, I saw her—Zuleika stood before me with her shimmering hair and
her red lips parted and her great dark eyes.

Like a speechless fool I stood and she glanced quickly down the hallway
and then stepped inside and closed the door.

"Gordon!" she whispered in a thrilling undertone. "Your friend! The
Scorpion has him!"

Hansen had awakened and now sat gaping stupidly at the strange scene which
met his eyes.

Zuleika did not heed him.

"And oh, Steephen!" she cried, and tears shone in her eyes, "I have tried
so hard to secure some more elixir but I could not."

"He went back to Kamonos' alone, and Hassim and Ganra Singh took him
captive and brought him to the Master's house. Tonight assemble a great host
of the people of the Scorpion for the sacrifice."

"Sacrifice!" A grisly thrill of horror coursed down my spine. Was there no
limit to the ghastliness of this business?

"Quick, Zuleika, where is this house of the Master's?"

"Soho, 48. You must summon the police and send many men to surround it,
but you must not go yourself—"

Hansen sprang up quivering for action, but I turned to him. My brain was
clear now, or seemed to be, and racing unnaturally.

"Wait!" I turned back to Zuleika. "When is this sacrifice to take
place?"

"At the rising of the moon."

"That is only a few hours before dawn. Time to save him, but if we raid
the house they'll kill him before we can reach them. And God only knows how
many diabolical things guard all approaches."

"I do not know," Zuleika whimpered. "I must go now, or the Master will
kill me."

Something gave way in my brain at that; something like a flood of wild and
terrible exultation swept over me.

"The Master will kill no one!" I shouted, flinging my arms on high.
"Before ever the east turns red for dawn, the Master dies! By all things holy
and unholy I swear it!"

Hansen stared wildly at me and Zuleika shrank back as I turned on her. To
my dope-inspired brain had come a sudden burst of light, true and unerring. I
knew Kathulos was a mesmerist—that he understood fully the secret of
dominating another's mind and soul. And I knew that at last I had hit upon
the reason of his power over the girl. Mesmerism! As a snake fascinates and
draws to him a bird, so the Master held Zuleika to him with unseen shackles.
So absolute was his rule over her that it held even when she was out of his
sight, working over great distances.

There was but one thing which would break that hold: the magnetic power of
some other person whose control was stronger with her than Kathulos'. I laid
my hands on her slim little shoulders and made her face me.

"Zuleika," I said commandingly, "here you are safe; you shall not return
to Kathulos. There is no need of it. Now you are free."

But I knew I had failed before I ever started. Her eyes held a look of
amazed, unreasoning fear and she twisted timidly in my grasp.

"Steephen, please let me go!" she begged. "I must—I must!"

I drew her over to the bed and asked Hansen for his handcuffs. He handed
them to me, wonderingly, and I fastened one cuff to the bedpost and the other
to her slim wrist. The girl whimpered but made no resistance, her limpid eyes
seeking mine in mute appeal.

It cut me to the quick to enforce my will upon her in this apparently
brutal manner but I steeled myself.

"Zuleika," I said tenderly, "you are now my prisoner. The Scorpion cannot
blame you for not returning to him when you are unable to do so—and
before dawn you shall be free of his rule entirely."

I turned to Hansen and spoke in a tone which admitted of no argument.

"Remain here, just without the door, until I return. On no account allow
any strangers to enter—that is, anyone whom you do not personally know.
And I charge you, on your honor as a man, do not release this girl, no matter
what she may say. If neither I nor Gordon have returned by ten o'clock
tomorrow, take her to this address—that family once was friends of mine
and will take care of a homeless girl. I am going to Scotland Yard."

"Steephen," Zuleika wailed, "you are going to the Master's lair! You will
be killed. Send the police, do not go!"

I bent, drew her into my arms, felt her lips against mine, then tore
myself away.

The fog plucked at me with ghostly fingers, cold as the hands of dead men,
as I raced down the street. I had no plan, but one was forming in my mind,
beginning to seethe in the stimulated cauldron that was my brain. I halted at
the sight of a policeman pacing his beat, and beckoning him to me, scribbled
a terse note on a piece of paper torn from a notebook and handed it to
him.

"Get this to Scotland Yard; it's a matter of life and death and it has to
do with the business of John Gordon."

At that name, a gloved hand came up in swift assent, but his assurance of
haste died out behind me as I renewed my flight. The note stated briefly that
Gordon was a prisoner at Soho 48 and advised an immediate raid in force
— advised, nay, in Gordon's name, commanded it.

My reason for my actions was simple; I knew that the first noise of the
raid sealed John Gordon's doom. Somehow I first must reach him and protect or
free him before the police arrived.

The time seemed endless, but at last the grim gaunt outlines of the house
that was Soho 48 rose up before me, a giant ghost in the fog. The hour grew
late; few people dared the mists and the dampness as I came to a halt in the
street before this forbidding building. No lights showed from the windows,
either upstairs or down. It seemed deserted. But the lair of the scorpion
often seems deserted until the silent death strikes suddenly.

Here I halted and a wild thought struck me. One way or another, the drama
would be over by dawn. Tonight was the climax of my career, the ultimate top
of life. Tonight I was the strongest link in the strange chain of events.
Tomorrow it would not matter whether I lived or died. I drew the flask of
elixir from my pocket and gazed at it. Enough for two more days if properly
eked out. Two more days of life! Or—I needed stimulation as I never
needed it before; the task in front of me was one no mere human could hope to
accomplish. If I drank the entire remainder of the elixir, I had no idea as
to the duration of its effect, but it would last the night through. And my
legs were shaky; my mind had curious periods of utter vacuity; weakness of
brain and body assailed me. I raised the flask and with one draft drained
it.

For an instant I thought it was death. Never had I taken such an
amount.

Sky and world reeled and I felt as if I would fly into a million vibrating
fragments, like the bursting of a globe of brittle steel. Like fire, like
hell-fire the elixir raced along my veins and I was a giant! A monster! A
superman!

Turning, I strode to the menacing, shadowy doorway. I had no plan; I felt
the need of none. As a drunken man walks blithely into danger, I strode to
the lair of the Scorpion, magnificently aware of my superiority, imperially
confident of my stimulation and sure as the unchanging stars that the way
would open before me.

Oh, there never was a superman like that who knocked commandingly on the
door of Soho 48 that night in the rain and the fog!

I knocked four times, the old signal that we slaves had used to be
admitted into the idol room at Yun Shatu's. An aperture opened in the center
of the door and slanted eyes looked warily out. They slightly widened as the
owner recognized me, then narrowed wickedly.

"You fool!" I said angrily. "Don't you see the mark?"

I held my hand to the aperture.

"Don't you recognize me? Let me in, curse you."

I think the very boldness of the trick made for its success. Surely by now
all the Scorpion's slaves knew of Stephen Costigan's rebellion, knew that he
was marked for death. And the very fact that I came there, inviting doom,
confused the doorman.

The door opened and I entered. The man who had admitted me was a tall,
lank Chinaman I had known as a servant at Kathulos. He closed the door behind
me and I saw we stood in a sort of vestibule, lighted by a dim lamp whose
glow could not be seen from the street for the reason that the windows were
heavily curtained. The Chinaman glowered at me undecided. I looked at him,
tensed. Then suspicion flared in his eyes and his hand flew to his sleeve.
But at the instant I was on him and his lean neck broke like a rotten bough
between my hands.

I eased his corpse to the thickly carpeted floor and listened. No sound
broke the silence. Stepping as stealthily as a wolf, fingers spread like
talons, I stole into the next room. This was furnished in oriental style,
with couches and rugs and gold-worked drapery, but was empty of human life. I
crossed it and went into the next one. Light flowed softly from the censers
which were swung from the ceiling, and the Eastern rugs deadened the sound of
my footfalls; I seemed to be moving through a castle of enchantment.

Every moment I expected a rush of silent assassins from the doorways or
from behind the curtains or screen with their writhing dragons. Utter silence
reigned. Room after room I explored and at last halted at the foot of the
stairs. The inevitable censer shed an uncertain light, but most of the stairs
were veiled in shadows. What horrors awaited me above?

But fear and the elixir are strangers and I mounted that stair of lurking
terror as boldly as I had entered that house of terror. The upper rooms I
found to be much like those below and with them they had this fact in common:
they were empty of human life. I sought an attic but there seemed no door
letting into one. Returning to the first floor, I made a search for an
entrance into the basement, but again my efforts were fruitless. The amazing
truth was borne in upon me: except for myself and that dead man who lay
sprawled so grotesquely in the outer vestibule, there were no men in that
house, dead or living.

I could not understand it. Had the house been bare of furniture I should
have reached the natural conclusion that Kathulos had fled—but no signs
of flight met my eye. This was unnatural, uncanny. I stood in the great
shadowy library and pondered. No, I had made no mistake in the house. Even if
the broken corpse in the vestibule were not there to furnish mute testimony,
everything in the room pointed toward the presence of the Master. There were
the artificial palms, the lacquered screens, the tapestries, even the idol,
though now no incense smoke rose before it. About the walls were ranged long
shelves of books, bound in strange and costly fashion—books in every
language in the world, I found from a swift examination, and on every subject
—outre and bizarre, most of them.

Remembering the secret passage in the Temple of Dreams, I investigated the
heavy mahogany table which stood in the center of the room. Bur nothing
resulted. A sudden blaze of fury surged up in me, primitive and unreasoning.
I snatched a statuette from the table and dashed it against the shelf-covered
wall. The noise of its breaking would surely bring the gang from their
hiding- place. But the result was much more startling than that!

The statuette struck the edge of a shelf and instantly the whole section
of shelves with their load of books swung silently outward, revealing a
narrow doorway! As in the other secret door, a row of steps led downward. At
another time I would have shuddered at the thought of descending, with the
horrors of the other tunnel fresh in my mind, but inflamed as I was by the
elixir, I strode forward without an instant's hesitancy.

Since there was no one in the house, they must be somewhere in the tunnel
or in whatever lair to which the tunnel led. I stepped through the doorway,
leaving the door open; the police might find it that way and follow me,
though somehow I felt as if mine would be a lone hand from start to grim
finish.

I went down a considerable distance and then the stair debouched into a
level corridor some twenty feet wide—a remarkable thing. In spite of
the width, the ceiling was rather low and from it hung small, curiously
shaped lamps which flung a dim light. I stalked hurriedly along the corridor
like old Death seeking victims, and as I went I noted the work of the thing.
The floor was of great broad flags and the walls seemed to be of huge blocks
of evenly set stone. This passage was clearly no work of modern days; the
slaves of Kathulos never tunneled there. Some secret way of medieval times, I
thought —and after all, who knows what catacombs lie below London,
whose secrets are greater and darker than those of Babylon and Rome?

On and on I went, and now I knew that I must be far below the earth. The
air was dank and heavy, and cold moisture dripped from the stones of walls
and ceiling. From time to time I saw smaller passages leading away in the
darkness but I determined to keep to the larger main one.

A ferocious impatience gripped me. I seemed to have been walking for hours
and still only dank damp walls and bare flags and guttering lamps met my
eyes. I kept a close watch for sinister-appearing chests or the like—
saw no such things.

Then as I was about to burst into savage curses, another stair loomed up
in the shadows in front of me.

"The ringed wolf glared the circle round
Through baleful, blue-lit eye,
Not unforgetful of his debt.
Quoth he, 'I'll do some damage yet
Or ere my turn to die!'"
—Mundy

LIKE a lean wolf I glided up the stairs. Some twenty feet up
there was a sort of landing from which other corridors diverged, much like
the lower one by which I had come. The thought came to me that the earth
below London must be honeycombed with such secret passages, one above the
other.

Some feet above this landing the steps halted at a door, and here I
hesitated, uncertain as to whether I should chance knocking or not. Even as I
meditated, the door began to open. I shrank back against the wall, flattening
myself out as much as possible. The door swung wide and a Moor came through.
Only a glimpse I had of the room beyond, out of the corner of my eye, but my
unnaturally alert senses registered the fact that the room was empty.

And on the instant, before be could turn, I smote the Moor a single
deathly blow behind the angle of the jawbone and be toppled headlong down the
stairs, to lie in a crumpled heap on the landing, his limbs tossed
grotesquely about.

My left hand caught the door as it started to slam shut and in an instant
I was through and standing in the room beyond. As I had thought, there was no
occupant of this room. I crossed it swiftly and entered the next. These rooms
were furnished in a manner before which the furnishings of the Soho house
paled into insignificance. Barbaric, terrible, unholy—these words alone
convey some slight idea of the ghastly sights which met my eyes. Skulls,
bones and complete skeletons formed much of the decorations, if such they
were. Mummies leered from their cases and mounted reptiles ranged the walls.
Between these sinister relics hung African shields of hide and bamboo,
crossed with assagais and war daggers. Here and there reared obscene idols,
black and horrible.

And in between and scattered about among these evidences of savagery and
barbarism were vases, screens, rugs and hangings of the highest oriental
workmanship; a strange and incongruous effect.

I had passed through two of these rooms without seeing a human being, when
I came to stairs leading upward. Up these I went, several flights, until I
came to a door in a ceiling. I wondered if I was still under the earth.
Surely the first stairs had let into a house of some sort. I raised the door
cautiously. Starlight met my eyes and I drew myself warily up and out. There
I halted. A broad flat roof stretched away on all sides and beyond its rim on
all sides glimmered the lights of London. Just what building I was on, I had
no idea, but that it was a tall one I could tell, for I seemed to be above
most of the lights I saw. Then I saw that I was not alone.

Over against the shadows of the ledge that ran around the roof's edge, a
great menacing form bulked in starlight. A pair of eyes glinted at me with a
light not wholly sane; the starlight glanced silver from a curving length of
steel. Yar Khan the Afghan killer fronted me in the silent shadows.

A fierce wild exultation surged over me. Now I could begin to pay the debt
I owed Kathulos and all his hellish band! The dope fired my veins and sent
waves of inhuman power and dark fury through me. A spring and I was on my
feet in a silent, deathly rush.

Yar Khan was a giant, taller and bulkier than I. He held a tulwar, and
from the instant I saw him I knew that he was full of the dope to the use of
which he was addicted—heroin.

As I came in he swung his heavy weapon high in the air, but ere he could
strike I seized his sword wrist in an iron grip and with my free hand drove
smashing blows into his midriff.

Of that hideous battle, fought in silence above the sleeping city with
only the stars to see, I remember little. I remember tumbling back and forth,
locked in a death embrace. I remember the stiff beard rasping my flesh as his
dope-fired eyes gazed wildly into mine. I remember the taste of hot blood in
my mouth, the tang of fearful exultation in my soul, the onrushing and
upsurging of inhuman strength and fury.

God, what a sight for a human eye, had anyone looked upon that grim roof
where two human leopards, dope maniacs, tore each other to pieces!

I remember his arm breaking like rotten wood in my grip and the tulwar
falling from his useless hand. Handicapped by a broken arm, the end was
inevitable, and with one wild uproaring flood of might, I rushed him to the
edge of the roof and bent him backward far out over the ledge. An instant we
struggled there; then I tore loose his hold and hurled him over, and one
single shriek came up as he hurtled into the darkness below.

I stood upright, arms hurled up toward the stars, a terrible statue of
primordial triumph. And down my breast trickled streams of blood from the
long wounds left by the Afghan's frantic nails, on neck and face.

Then I turned with the craft of the maniac. Had no one heard the sound of
that battle? My eyes were on the door through which I had come, but a noise
made me turn, and for the first time I noticed a small affair like a tower
jutting up from the roof. There was no window there, but there was a door,
and even as I looked that door opened and a huge black form framed itself in
the light that streamed from within. Hassim!

He stepped out on the roof and closed the door, his shoulders hunched and
neck outthrust as he glanced this way and that. I struck him senseless to the
roof with one hate-driven smash. I crouched over him, waiting some sign of
returning consciousness; then away in the sky close to the horizon, I saw a
faint red tint. The rising of the moon!

Where in God's name was Gordon? Even as I stood undecided, a strange noise
reached me. It was curiously like the droning of many bees.

Striding in the direction from which it seemed to come, I crossed the roof
and leaned over the ledge. A sight nightmarish and incredible met my
eyes.

Some twenty feet below the level of the roof on which I stood, there was
another roof, of the same size and clearly a part of the same building. On
one side it was bounded by the wall; on the other three sides a parapet
several feet high took the place of a ledge.

A great throng of people stood, sat and squatted, close-packed on the
roof—and without exception they were Negroes! There were hundreds of
them, and it was their low-voiced conversation which I had heard. But what
held my gaze was that upon which their eyes were fixed.

About the center of the roof rose a sort of teocalli some ten feet high,
almost exactly like those found in Mexico and on which the priests of the
Aztecs sacrificed human victims. This, allowing for its infinitely smaller
scale, was an exact type of those sacrificial pyramids. On the flat top of it
was a curiously carved altar, and beside it stood a lank, dusky form whom
even the ghastly mask he wore could not disguise to my gaze—Santiago,
the Haiti voodoo fetish man. On the altar lay John Gordon, stripped to the
waist and bound hand and foot, but conscious.

I reeled back from the roof edge, rent in twain by indecision. Even the
stimulus of the elixir was not equal to this. Then a sound brought me about
to see Hassim struggling dizzily to his knees. I reached him with two long
strides and ruthlessly smashed him down again. Then I noticed a queer sort of
contrivance dangling from his girdle. I bent and examined it. It was a mask
similar to that worn by Santiago. Then my mind leaped swift and sudden to a
wild desperate plan, which to my dope-ridden brain seemed not at all wild or
desperate. I stepped softly to the tower and, opening the door, peered
inward. I saw no one who might need to be silenced, but I saw a long silken
robe hanging upon a peg in the wall. The luck of the dope fiend! I snatched
it and closed the door again. Hassim showed no signs of consciousness but I
gave him another smash on the chin to make sure and, seizing his mask,
hurried to the ledge.

A low guttural chant floated up to me, jangling, barbaric, with an
undertone of maniacal blood-lust. The Negroes, men and women, were swaying
back and forth to the wild rhythm of their death chant. On the teocalli
Santiago stood like a statue of black basalt, facing the east, dagger held
high— a wild and terrible sight, naked as he was save for a wide silken
girdle and that inhuman mask on his face. The moon thrust a red rim above the
eastern horizon and a faint breeze stirred the great black plumes which
nodded above the voodoo man's mask. The chant of the worshipers dropped to a
low, sinister whisper.

I hurriedly slipped on the death mask, gathered the robe close about me
and prepared for the descent. I was prepared to drop the full distance, being
sure in the superb confidence of my insanity that I would land unhurt, but as
I climbed over the ledge I found a steel ladder leading down. Evidently
Hassim, one of the voodoo priests, intended descending this way. So down I
went, and in haste, for I knew that the instant the moon's lower rim cleared
the city's skyline, that motionless dagger would descend into Gordon's
breast.

Gathering the robe close about me so as to conceal my white skin, I
stepped down upon the roof and strode forward through rows of black
worshipers who shrank aside to let me through. To the foot of the teocalli I
stalked and up the stair that ran about it, until I stood beside the death
altar and marked the dark red stains upon it. Gordon lay on his back, his
eyes open, his face drawn and haggard, but his gaze dauntless and
unflinching.

Santiago's eyes blazed at me through the slits of his mask, but I read no
suspicion in his gaze until I reached forward and took the dagger from his
hand. He was too much astonished to resist, and the black throng fell
suddenly silent. That he saw my hand was not that of a Negro it is certain,
but he was simply struck speechless with astonishment. Moving swiftly I cut
Gordon's bonds and hauled him erect. Then Santiago with a shriek leaped upon
me— shrieked again and, arms flung high, pitched headlong from the
teocalli with his own dagger buried to the hilt in his breast.

Then the black worshipers were on us with a screech and a roar—
leaping on the steps of the teocalli like black leopards in the moonlight,
knives flashing, eyes gleaming whitely.

I tore mask and robe from me and answered Gordon's exclamation with a wild
laugh. I had hoped that by virtue of my disguise I might get us both safely
away but now I was content to die there at his side.

He tore a great metal ornament from the altar, and as the attackers came
he wielded this. A moment we held them at bay and then they flowed over us
like a black wave. This to me was Valhalla! Knives stung me and blackjacks
smashed against me, but I laughed and drove my iron fists in straight,
steam-hammer smashes that shattered flesh and bone. I saw Gordon's crude
weapon rise and fall, and each time a man went down. Skulls shattered and
blood splashed and the dark fury swept over me. Nightmare faces swirled about
me and I was on my knees; up again and the faces crumpled before my blows.
Through far mists I seemed to hear a hideous familiar voice raised in
imperious command.

Gordon was swept away from me but from the sounds I knew that the work of
death still went on. The stars reeled through fogs of blood, but Hell's
exaltation was on me and I reveled in the dark tides of fury until a darker,
deeper tide swept over me and I knew no more.

"Here now in his triumph where all things
falter,
Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand spread,
As a God self-slain on his own strange altar,
Death lies dead."
—Swinburne

SLOWLY I drifted back into life—slowly, slowly. A mist
held me and in the mist I saw a Skull—

I lay in a steel cage like a captive wolf, and the bars were too strong, I
saw, even for my strength. The cage seemed to be set in a sort of niche in
the wall and I was looking into a large room. This room was under the earth,
for the floor was of stone flags and the walls and ceiling were composed of
gigantic block of the same material. Shelves ranged the walls, covered with
weird appliances, apparently of a scientific nature, and more were on the
great table that stood in the center of the room. Beside this sat
Kathulos.

The sorcerer was clad in a snaky yellow robe, and those hideous hands and
that terrible head were more pronouncedly reptilian than ever. He turned his
great yellow eyes toward me, like pools of livid fire, and his parchment-thin
lips moved in what probably passed for a smile.

I staggered erect and gripped the bars, cursing.

"Gordon, curse you, where is Gordon?"

Kathulos took a test-tube from the table, eyed it closely and emptied it
into another.

"Ah, my friend awakes," he murmured in his voice—the voice of a
living dead man.

He thrust his hands into his long sleeves and turned fully to me.

"I think in you," he said distinctly, "I have created a Frankenstein
monster. I made of you a superhuman creature to serve my wishes and you broke
from me. You are the bane of my might, worse than Gordon even. You have
killed valuable servants and interfered with my plans. However, your evil
comes to an end tonight. Your friend Gordon broke away but he is being hunted
through the tunnels and cannot escape.

"You," he continued with the sincere interest of the scientist, "are a
most interesting subject. Your brain must be formed differently from any
other man that ever lived. I will make a close study of it and add it to my
laboratory. How a man, with the apparent need of the elixir in his system,
has managed to go on for two days still stimulated by the last draft is more
than I can understand."

My heart leaped. With all his wisdom, little Zuleika had tricked him and
he evidently did not know that she had filched a flask of the life-giving
stuff from him.

"The last draft you had from me," he went on, "was sufficient only for
some eight hours. I repeat, it has me puzzled. Can you offer any
suggestion?"

I snarled wordlessly. He sighed.

"As always the barbarian. Truly the proverb speaks: 'Jest with the wounded
tiger and warm the adder in your bosom before you seek to lift the savage
from his savagery.'"

He meditated awhile in silence. I watched him uneasily. There was about
him a vague and curious difference—his long fingers emerging from the
sleeves drummed on the chair arms and some hidden exultation strummed at the
back of his voice, lending it unaccustomed vibrancy.

"And you might have been a king of the new regime," he said suddenly.
"Aye, the new—new and inhumanly old!"

I shuddered as his dry cackling laugh rasped out.

He bent his head as if listening. From far off seemed to come a hum of
guttural voices. His lips writhed in a smile.

"My black children," he murmured. "They tear my enemy Gordon to pieces in
the tunnels. They, Mr. Costigan, are my real henchmen and it was for their
edification tonight that I laid John Gordon on the sacrificial stone. I would
have preferred to have made some experiments with him, based on certain
scientific theories, but my children must be humored. Later under my tutelage
they will outgrow their childish superstitions and throw aside their foolish
customs, but now they must be led gently by the hand.

"How do you like these under-the-earth corridors, Mr. Costigan?" he
switched suddenly. "You thought of them—what? No doubt that the white
savages of your Middle Ages built them? Faugh! These tunnels are older than
your world! They were brought into being by mighty kings, too many eons ago
for your mind to grasp, when an imperial city towered where this crude
village of London stands. All trace of that metropolis has crumbled to dust
and vanished, but these corridors were built by more than human
skill—ha ha! Of all the teeming thousands who move daily above them,
none knows of their existence save my servants—and not all of them.
Zuleika, for instance, does not know of them, for of late I have begun to
doubt her loyalty and shall doubtless soon make of her an example."

At that I hurled myself blindly against the side of the cage, a red wave
of hate and fury tossing me in its grip. I seized the bars and strained until
the veins stood out on my forehead and the muscles bulged and crackled in my
arms and shoulders. And the bars bent before my onslaught—a little but
no more, and finally the power flowed from my limbs and I sank down trembling
and weakened. Kathulos watched me imperturbably.

"The bars hold," be announced with something almost like relief in his
tone. "Frankly, I prefer to be on the opposite side of them. You are a human
ape if there was ever one."

He laughed suddenly and wildly.

"But why do you seek to oppose me?" he shrieked unexpectedly. "Why defy
me, who am Kathulos, the Sorcerer, great even in the days of the old empire?
Today, invincible! A magician, a scientist, among ignorant savages! Ha
ha!"

I shuddered, and sudden blinding light broke in on me. Kathulos himself
was an addict, and was fired by the stuff of his choice! What hellish
concoction was strong enough, terrible enough to thrill the Master and
inflame him, I do not know, nor do I wish to know. Of all the uncanny
knowledge that was his, I, knowing the man as I did, count this the most
weird and grisly.

"You, you paltry fool!" he was ranting, his face lit supernaturally.

"Know you who I am? Kathulos of Egypt! Bah! They knew me in the old days!
I reigned in the dim misty sea lands ages and ages before the sea rose and
engulfed the land. I died, not as men die; the magic draft of life
everlasting was ours! I drank deep and slept. Long I slept in my lacquered
case! My flesh withered and grew hard; my blood dried in my veins. I became
as one dead. But still within me burned the spirit of life, sleeping but
anticipating the awakening. The great cities crumbled to dust. The sea drank
the land. The tall shrines and the lofty spires sank beneath the green waves.
All this I knew as I slept, as a man knows in dreams. Kathulos of Egypt?
Faugh! Kathulos of Atlantis!"

I uttered a sudden involuntary cry. This was too grisly for sanity.

"Aye, the magician, the sorcerer.

"And down the long years of savagery, through which the barbaric races
struggled to rise without their masters, the legend came of the day of
empire, when one of the Old Race would rise up from the sea. Aye, and lead to
victory the black people who were our slaves in the old days.

"These brown and yellow people, what care I for them? The blacks were the
slaves of my race, and I am their god today. They will obey me. The yellow
and the brown peoples are fools—I make them my tools and the day will
come when my black warriors will turn on them and slay at my word. And you,
you white barbarians, whose ape-ancestors forever defied my race and me, your
doom is at hand! And when I mount my universal throne, the only whites shall
be white slaves!

"The day came as prophesied, when my case, breaking free from the halls
where it lay—where it had lain when Atlantis was still sovereign of the
world—where since her empery it had sunk into the green fathoms—
when my case, I say, was smitten by the deep sea tides and moved and stirred,
and thrust aside the clinging seaweed that masks temples and minarets, and
came floating up past the lofty sapphire and golden spires, up through the
green waters, to float upon the lazy waves of the sea.

"Then came a white fool carrying out the destiny of which he was not
aware. The men on his ship, true believers, knew that the time had come. And
I —the air entered my nostrils and I awoke from the long, long sleep. I
stirred and moved and lived. And rising in the night, I slew the fool that
had lifted me from the ocean, and my servants made obeisance to me and took
me into Africa, where I abode awhile and learned new languages and new ways
of a new world and became strong.

"The wisdom of your dreary world—ha ha! I who delved deeper in the
mysteries of the old than any man dared go! All that men know today, I know,
and the knowledge beside that which I have brought down the centuries is as a
grain of sand beside a mountain! You should know something of that knowledge!
By it I lifted you from one hell to plunge you into a greater! You fool, here
at my hand is that which would lift you from this! Aye, would strike from you
the chains whereby I have bound you!"

He snatched up a golden vial and shook it before my gaze. I eyed it as men
dying in the desert must eye the distant mirages. Kathulos fingered it
meditatively. His unnatural excitement seemed to have passed suddenly, and
when he spoke again it was in the passionless, measured tones of the
scientist.

"That would indeed be an experiment worthwhile—to free you of the
elixir habit and see if your dope-riddled body would sustain life. Nine times
out of ten the victim, with the need and stimulus removed, would die—
but you are such a giant of a brute—"

He sighed and set the vial down.

"The dreamer opposes the man of destiny. My time is not my own or I should
choose to spend my life pent in my laboratories, carrying out my experiments.
But now, as in the days of the old empire when kings sought my counsel, I
must work and labor for the good of the race at large. Aye, I must toil and
sow the seed of glory against the full coming of the imperial days when the
seas give up all their living dead."

I shuddered. Kathulos laughed wildly again. His fingers began to drum his
chair arms and his face gleamed with the unnatural light once more. The red
visions had begun to seethe in his skull again.

"Under the green seas they lie, the ancient masters, in their lacquered
cases, dead as men reckon death, but only sleeping. Sleeping through the long
ages as hours, awaiting the day of awakening! The old masters, the wise men,
who foresaw the day when the sea would gulp the land, and who made ready.
Made ready that they might rise again in the barbaric days to come. As did I.
Sleeping they lie, ancient kings and grim wizards, who died as men die,
before Atlantis sank. Who, sleeping, sank with her but who shall arise
again!

"Mine the glory! I rose first. And I sought out the site of old cities, on
shores that did not sink. Vanished, long vanished. The barbarian tide swept
over them thousands of years ago as the green waters swept over their elder
sister of the deeps. On some, the deserts stretch bare. Over some, as here,
young barbarian cities rise."

He halted suddenly. His eyes sought one of the dark openings that marked a
corridor. I think his strange intuition warned him of some impending danger
but I do not believe that he had any inkling of how dramatically our scene
would be interrupted.

As he looked, swift footsteps sounded and a man appeared suddenly in the
doorway—a man disheveled, tattered and bloody. John Gordon! Kathulos
sprang erect with a cry, and Gordon, gasping as from superhuman exertion,
brought down the revolver he held in his hand and fired point-blank. Kathulos
staggered, clapping his hand to his breast, and then, groping wildly, reeled
to the wall and fell against it. A doorway opened and he reeled through, but
as Gordon leaped fiercely across the chamber, a blank stone surface met his
gaze, which yielded not to his savage hammerings.

He whirled and ran drunkenly to the table where lay a bunch of keys the
Master had dropped there.

"The vial!" I shrieked. "Take the vial!" And he thrust it into his
pocket.

Back along the corridor through which he had come sounded a faint clamor
growing swiftly like a wolf-pack in full cry. A few precious seconds spent
with fumbling for the right key, then the cage door swung open and I sprang
out. A sight for the gods we were, the two of us! Slashed, bruised and cut,
our garments hanging in tatters—my wounds had ceased to bleed, but now
as I moved they began again, and from the stiffness of my hands I knew that
my knuckles were shattered. As for Gordon, he was fairly drenched in blood
from crown to foot.

We made off down a passage in the opposite direction from the menacing
noise, which I knew to be the black servants of the Master in full pursuit of
us. Neither of us was in good shape for running, but we did our best. Where
we were going I had no idea. My superhuman strength had deserted me and I was
going now on willpower alone. We switched off into another corridor and we
had not gone twenty steps until, looking back, I saw the first of the black
devils round the corner.

A desperate effort increased our lead a trifle. But they had seen us, were
in full view now, and a yell of fury broke from them to be succeeded by a
more sinister silence as they bent all efforts to overhauling us.

There a short distance in front of us we saw a stair loom suddenly in the
gloom. If we might reach that—but we saw something else.

Against the ceiling, between us and the stairs, hung a huge thing like an
iron grille, with great spikes along the bottom—a portcullis. And even
as we looked, without halting in our panting strides, it began to move.

"They're lowering the portcullis!" Gordon croaked, his blood-streaked face
a mask of exhaustion and will.

Now the blacks were only ten feet behind us—now the huge grate,
gaining momentum, with a creak of rusty, unused mechanism, rushed downward. A
final spurt, a gasping straining nightmare of effort—and Gordon,
sweeping us both along in a wild burst of pure nerve-strength, hurled us
under and through, and the grate crashed behind us!

A moment we lay gasping, not heeding the frenzied horde who raved and
screamed on the other side of the grate. So close had that final leap been,
that the great spikes in their descent had torn shreds from our clothing.

The blacks were thrusting at us with daggers through the bars, but we were
out of reach and it seemed to me that I was content to lie there and die of
exhaustion. But Gordon weaved unsteadily erect and hauled me with him.

"Got to get out," he croaked; "go to warn—Scotland Yard—
honeycombs in heart of London—high explosives—arms—
ammunition."

We blundered up the steps, and in front of us I seemed to hear a sound of
metal grating against metal. The stairs ended abruptly, on a landing that
terminated in a blank wall. Gordon hammered against this and the inevitable
secret doorway opened. Light streamed in, through the bars of a sort of
grille. Men in the uniform of London police were sawing at these with
hacksaws, and even as they greeted us, an opening was made through which we
crawled.

"You're hurt, sir!" One of the men took Gordon's arm.

My companion shook him off.

"There's no time to lose! Out of here, as quick as we can go!"

I saw that we were in a basement of some sort. We hastened up the steps
and out into the early dawn which was turning the east scarlet. Over the tops
of smaller houses I saw in the distance a great gaunt building on the roof of
which, I felt instinctively, that wild drama had been enacted the night
before.

"That building was leased some months ago by a mysterious Chinaman," said
Gordon, following my gaze. "Office building originally—the neighborhood
deteriorated and the building stood vacant for some time. The new tenant
added several stories to it but left it apparently empty. Had my eye on it
for some time."

This was told in Gordon's jerky swift manner as we started hurriedly along
the sidewalk. I listened mechanically, like a man in a trance. My vitality
was ebbing fast and I knew that I was going to crumple at any moment.

"The people living in the vicinity had been reporting strange sights and
noises. The man who owned the basement we just left heard queer sounds
emanating from the wall of the basement and called the police. About that
time I was racing back and forth among those cursed corridors like a hunted
rat and I heard the police banging on the wall. I found the secret door and
opened it but found it barred by a grating. It was while I was telling the
astounded policemen to procure a hacksaw that the pursuing Negroes, whom I
had eluded for the moment, came into sight and I was forced to shut the door
and run for it again. By pure luck I found you and by pure luck managed to
find the way back to the door.

"Now we must get to Scotland Yard. If we strike swiftly, we may capture
the entire band of devils. Whether I killed Kathulos or not I do not know, or
if he can be killed by mortal weapons. But to the best of my knowledge all of
them are now in those subterranean corridors and—"

At that moment the world shook! A brain-shattering roar seemed to break
the sky with its incredible detonation; houses tottered and crashed to ruins;
a mighty pillar of smoke and flame burst from the earth and on its wings
great masses of debris soared skyward. A black fog of smoke and dust and
falling timbers enveloped the world, a prolonged thunder seemed to rumble up
from the center of the earth as of walls and ceilings falling, and amid the
uproar and the screaming I sank down and knew no more.

"And like a soul belated,
In heaven and hell unmated;
By cloud and mist abated;
Come out of darkness morn."
—Swinburne

THERE is little need to linger on the scenes of horror of
that terrible London morning. The world is familiar with and knows most of
the details attendant to the great explosion which wiped out a tenth of that
great city with a resultant loss of lives and property. For such a happening
some reason must needs be given; the tale of the deserted building got out,
and many wild stories were circulated. Finally, to still the rumors, the
report was unofficially given out that this building had been the rendezvous
and secret stronghold of a gang of international anarchists, who had stored
its basement full of high explosives and who had supposedly ignited these
accidentally. In a way there was a good deal to this tale, as you know, but
the threat that had lurked there far transcended any anarchist.

All this was told to me, for when I sank unconscious, Gordon, attributing
my condition to exhaustion and a need of the hashish to the use of which he
thought I was addicted, lifted me and with the aid of the stunned policemen
got me to his rooms before returning to the scene of the explosion. At his
rooms he found Hansen, and Zuleika handcuffed to the bed as I had left her.
He released her and left her to tend to me, for all London was in a terrible
turmoil and he was needed elsewhere.

When I came to myself at last, I looked up into her starry eyes and lay
quiet, smiling up at her. She sank down upon my bosom, nestling my head in
her arms and covering my face with her kisses.

"Steephen!" she sobbed over and over, as her tears splashed hot on my
face.

I was scarcely strong enough to put my arms about her but I managed it,
and we lay there for a space, in silence, except for the girl's hard, racking
sobs.

"Zuleika, I love you," I murmured.

"And I love you, Steephen," she sobbed. "Oh, it is so hard to part now
—but I'm going with you, Steephen; I can't live without you!"

"My dear child," said John Gordon, entering the room suddenly, "Costigan's
not going to die. We will let him have enough hashish to tide him along, and
when he is stronger we will take him off the habit slowly."

"You don't understand, sahib; it is not hashish Steephen must have. It is
something which only the Master knew, and now that he is dead or is fled,
Steephen cannot get it and must die."

Gordon shot a quick, uncertain glance at me. His fine face was drawn and
haggard, his clothes sooty and torn from his work among the debris of the
explosion.

"She's right, Gordon," I said languidly. "I'm dying. Kathulos killed the
hashish-craving with a concoction he called the elixir. I've been keeping
myself alive on some of the stuff that Zuleika stole from him and gave me,
but I drank it all last night."

I was aware of no craving of any kind, no physical or mental discomfort
even. All my mechanism was slowing down fast; I had passed the stage where
the need of the elixir would tear and rend me. I felt only a great lassitude
and a desire to sleep. And I knew that the moment I closed my eyes, I would
die.

"A strange dope, that elixir," I said with growing languor. "It burns and
freezes and then at last the craving kills easily and without torment."

"Costigan, curse it," said Gordon desperately, "you can't go like this!
That vial I took from the Egyptian's table—what is in it?"

"The Master swore it would free me of my curse and probably kill me also,"
I muttered. "I'd forgotten about it. Let me have it; it can no more than kill
me and I'm dying now."

"Yes, quick, let me have it!" exclaimed Zuleika fiercely, springing to
Gordon's side, her hands passionately outstretched. She returned with the
vial which he had taken from his pocket, and knelt beside me, holding it to
my lips, while she murmured to me gently and soothingly in her own
language.

I drank, draining the vial, but feeling little interest in the whole
matter. My outlook was purely impersonal, at such a low ebb was my life, and
I cannot even remember how the stuff tasted. I only remember feeling a
curious sluggish fire burn faintly along my veins, and the last thing I saw
was Zuleika crouching over me, her great eyes fixed with a burning intensity
on me. Her tense little hand rested inside her blouse, and remembering her
vow to take her own life if I died I tried to lift a hand and disarm her,
tried to tell Gordon to take away the dagger she had hidden in her garments.
But speech and action failed me and I drifted away into a curious sea of
unconsciousness.

Of that period I remember nothing. No sensation fired my sleeping brain to
such an extent as to bridge the gulf over which I drifted. They say I lay
like a dead man for hours, scarcely breathing, while Zuleika hovered over me,
never leaving my side an instant, and fighting like a tigress when anyone
tried to coax her away to rest. Her chain was broken.

As I had carried the vision of her into that dim land of nothingness, so
her dear eyes were the first thing which greeted my returning consciousness.
I was aware of a greater weakness than I thought possible for a man to feel,
as if I had been an invalid for months, but the life in me, faint though it
was, was sound and normal, caused by no artificial stimulation. I smiled up
at my girl and murmured weakly:

"Throw away your dagger, little Zuleika; I'm going to live."

She screamed and fell on her knees beside me, weeping and laughing at the
same time. Women are strange beings, of mixed and powerful emotions,
truly.

Gordon entered and grasped the hand which I could not lift from the
bed.

"You're a case for an ordinary human physician now, Costigan," he said.
"Even a layman like myself can tell that. For the first time since I've known
you, the look in your eyes is entirely sane. You look like a man who has had
a complete nervous breakdown, and needs about a year of rest and quiet. Great
heavens, man, you've been through enough, outside your dope experience, to
last you a lifetime."

"Tell me first," said I, "was Kathulos killed in the explosion?"

"I don't know," answered Gordon somberly. "Apparently the entire system of
subterranean passages was destroyed. I know my last bullet—the last
bullet that was in the revolver which I wrested from one of my attackers
—found its mark in the Master's body, but whether he died from the
wound, or whether a bullet can hurt him, I do not know. And whether in his
death agonies he ignited the tons and tons of high explosives which were
stored in the corridors, or whether the Negroes did it unintentionally, we
shall never know.

"My God, Costigan, did you ever see such a honeycomb? And we know not how
many miles in either direction the passages reached. Even now Scotland Yard
men are combing the subways and basements of the town for secret openings.
All known openings, such as the one through which we came and the one in Soho
48, were blocked by falling walls. The office building was simply blown to
atoms."

"What about the men who raided Soho 48?"

"The door in the library wall had been closed. They found the Chinaman you
killed, but searched the house without avail. Lucky for them, too, else they
had doubtless been in the tunnels when the explosion came, and perished with
the hundreds of Negroes who must have died then."

"Every Negro in London must have been there."

"I dare say. Most of them are voodoo worshipers at heart and the power the
Master wielded was incredible. They died, but what of him? Was he blown to
atoms by the stuff which he had secretly stored, or crushed when the stone
walls crumbled and the ceilings came thundering down?"

"There is no way to search among those subterranean ruins, I suppose?"

"None whatever. When the walls caved in, the tons of earth upheld by the
ceilings also came crashing down, filling the corridors with dirt and broken
stone, blocking them forever. And on the surface of the earth, the houses
which the vibration shook down were heaped high in utter ruins. What happened
in those terrible corridors must remain forever a mystery."

My tale draws to a close. The months that followed passed uneventfully,
except for the growing happiness which to me was paradise, but which would
bore you were I to relate it. But one day Gordon and I again discussed the
mysterious happenings that had had their being under the grim hand of the
Master.

"Since that day," said Gordon, "the world has been quiet. Africa has
subsided and the East seems to have returned to her ancient sleep. There can
be but one answer—living or dead, Kathulos was destroyed that morning
when his world crashed about him."

"Gordon," said I, "what is the answer to that greatest of all
mysteries?"

My friend shrugged his shoulders.

"I have come to believe that mankind eternally hovers on the brinks of
secret oceans of which it knows nothing. Races have lived and vanished before
our race rose out of the slime of the primitive, and it is likely still
others will live upon the earth after ours has vanished. Scientists have long
upheld the theory that the Atlanteans possessed a higher civilization than
our own, and on very different lines. Certainly Kathulos himself was proof
that our boasted culture and knowledge were nothing beside that of whatever
fearful civilization produced him.

"His dealings with you alone have puzzled all the scientific world, for
none of them has been able to explain how he could remove the hashish
craving, stimulate you with a drug so infinitely more powerful, and then
produce another drug which entirely effaced the effects of the other."

"I have him to thank for two things," I said slowly; "the regaining of my
lost manhood—and Zuleika. Kathulos, then, is dead, as far as any mortal
thing can die. But what of those others—those 'ancient masters' who
still sleep in the sea?"

Gordon shuddered.

"As I said, perhaps mankind loiters on the brink of unthinkable chasms of
horror. But a fleet of gunboats is even now patrolling the oceans
unobtrusively, with orders to destroy instantly any strange case that may be
found floating—to destroy it and its contents. And if my word has any
weight with the English government and the nations of the world, the seas
will be so patrolled until doomsday shall let down the curtain on the races
of today."

"At night I dream of them, sometimes," I muttered, "sleeping in their
lacquered cases, which drip with strange seaweed, far down among the green
surges—where unholy spires and strange towers rise in the dark
ocean."

"We have been face to face with an ancient horror," said Gordon somberly,
"with a fear too dark and mysterious for the human brain to cope with.
Fortune has been with us; she may not again favor the sons of men. It is best
that we be ever on our guard. The universe was not made for humanity alone;
life takes strange phases and it is the first instinct of nature for the
different species to destroy each other. No doubt we seemed as horrible to
the Master as he did to us. We have scarcely tapped the chest of secrets
which nature has stored, and I shudder to think of what that chest may hold
for the human race."

"That's true," said I, inwardly rejoicing at the vigor which was beginning
to course through my wasted veins, "but men will meet obstacles as they come,
as men have always risen to meet them. Now, I am beginning to know the full
worth of life and love, and not all the devils from all the abysses can hold
me."

Gordon smiled.

"You have it coming to you, old comrade. The best thing is to forget all
that dark interlude, for in that course lies light and happiness."